Why I Waste My Time on Writing
One of many things that
I do not like about myself is that I am so forgetful. I have been trying to retain
my precious knowledge and childhood memories only to find out that everything has run like a handful of sand and a gnawed leaf. That is, I think, one of the
reasons why I bother wasting my time trying to manifest my thoughts to words.
I am aware that writing—just
like remembering—is actually an act of creating instead of projecting reality from one mode into another.
I am, however, okay with the approximation of it. I think I would be so glad to look back
to it from different perspective when I am old—if I lived long enough.
I see my writing as a
camera that captures moments. Even though the photographs are not the best and
high-definition ones—even crappy sometimes—it is all I have got and I am
grateful for that. This is my crappy old camera that I rely upon besides my
small-sized-full-of-viruses memory card that frequently engulfs my precious
contents I tried to keep.
I am surprised, most of
the time, when I saw the images that I captured. Anything that I tried to capture—a
beauty or crap—ended up being a crap or a worse crap. Maybe it is because the
actual moment has been filtered through my limited senses and manifested by my
limited linguistic resources. Anyway, it is a special kind of ‘worse’, though.
This is my own ‘worse’, not anyone else’s ‘worse’ or even ‘best’.
At times, I do free-writing
which I use as a mirror through which I see my reflection. There are so many
things that I am unaware of about me. Thus, my writing is also a kind of selfie that I took and then inspected. I
might be jolted by what I found. Sometimes, it is some parts in my face that I
thought were not there, sometimes, it is a complete stranger’s face that scares
me.
What a thrill!
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