I finally managed to get my act together and write something about my life. I don't expect to have avid readers. This is, in fact, a desperate 'Know thyself' call. I've been staggering the idea of writing my own book, however being such a lazy reader I haven't been able to write anything. I know deep within I always wanted to be a writer, but that's the easiest answer I can think of when others ask me what my dream job is, however I don't actually work hard for it. I have been teaching ever since I graduated from college. I borrowed a couple of books from a friend a month ago which I haven't finished reading yet. In addition I feel like my English is getting less sophisticated by the day and that my muse is becoming more dissatisfied with me.
I have been feeling very bad since last week. I'd be lying if I said I was upset for no reason. Actually I'm pretty depressed. I can't remember how many people I've actually opened up to and talked about my problems. Every time I do, I wait for a miracle to happen. That miracle would be divine help to make life-altering decisions. It's like I don't want to deal with my own problems alone. I want the whole world to take part and think for me. I'm tired of thinking and worrying and actually not doing anything about it. I'm tired of being irresponsible and not willing to change. I don't know for how long I've actually started feeling negative and passive about things. I may say that I've always been that way. I've always depressed and confused those who surrounded me only because i was mirroring the confusion and negativity in me. But why? Why am I that negative and lost? I used to be a relatively happier person when I had a job. Although I wasn't very fond of it I still lingered on and pursued goals that were not personally preferable. I always had that infatuation with writing stories and poems, reading books and going to the library and research in the college days. I know my first college year was the worst in my life simply because there was no one I knew and there was no way for me to socialize with anyone. I was anti-social at that time. As a matter of fact I've never approached anyone first. All those who later became my colleagues were only interested in me at first because I was the only male student in class and they all wanted to be seen with one.
Anyhow, I fell in love with books and my study in my second year and this is when I realized I could actually make it as a writer because to me writing is all about self-expression, romance, heart-felt moments that give you goose-bumps, venting negative energy, intellectual precedence, and self-gratification. I was good at writing in college and I felt very fulfilled that I knew that much vocabulary. I was armed and I could write just about anything because at that time I had resources to back myself up with at the time of reproach.
I feel like Virginia Woolf. I feel like there a lot of things to write about but regardless I'm simply following my mind's stream of thought. There are so many things to tell and a lot more to describe. In the mean time, there are so many questions I crave answers for. Do I really like bodybuilding? or do I rather read books and write stories and be intellectual than end up being a crack-headed gym addict? the big question is, WHAT DO I REALLY WANT IN LIFE? That's one mind-boggling question that I have been struggling to find an answer to. I've been there and done that, like they say. I was a gym addict and I was a prolific writer, but then I haven't felt any streaks of deep interest in any of them simply because I lack the motive. I always see the negative side of the picture or the story. I always look at the half empty part and disregard the half full one. Maybe I'm depressed, or maybe I'm just running away from a simple truth. Maybe I'm complicating things on purpose or maybe I'm good for nothing. I always tell myself that things will be alright in the future and that one day all my problems will be magically resolved before I even know it. But no sooner do I wake myself up from the dream world into the real harsh world.
