Okay, so I haven't blogged the whole summer. Needless to say, it was uneventful. Painfully uneventful, actually, that at one point I was almost convinced that learning to eat fire—with the matching inevitable hospitalization—would be a good way of spicing my summer up. But not really, I didn't plan to do that. Owing partly to the paranoia I inherited from my mother, and partly to my incredible laziness, I never learned to eat anything more daring than weird vegetables and moderate amounts of spicy canned food.
I never went anywhere, nor went swimming. I didn't learn how to drive, or even to cook a decent meal. Heck, I didn't even go out with friends. Probably the most adventurous thing I did was trying out for a summer call center job for ePLDT Ventus—I met a couple of funny people—but they never called me back. Thus ensued another summer of astounding levels of nothingness.
That's changed now. To my huge relief, classes have resumed. My schedule still is prefect for bumming out—free Tuesdays and Fridays—which I kind of dislike, since I've had enough of my small house and my pink room to last me a couple of stressful weeks. I've been doing nothing for so long that the thought of spending nights sleepless and poring over readings seems almost appealing.
|Writing is pretty. [Click the photo for credits.]|
So what's there to learn from all of this? I have no idea. I just wanted to share, because today I came home from the first real, whole class session I've had in the semester, and tomorrow we're leaving for an overnight stay in Fontana with my parents' friends.
I just feel like I have my life back. And apparently, me with no life means me with no blog either. I just realized how much of myself I really put into this blog—it's not that I didn't have any thoughts at all in the last two months, it's just that I was in a mood so lethargic that I couldn't seem to put them into writing.
I'm reminded that writing is really a lot more than just a hobby for me—not just a way to release excess thoughts, or bitch about how the universe loves to bully me. It's not just a venue for my pseudo-profundity, or a grammatical exercise. Writing is really my life.
Back when I was fresh from high school, I decided not to pursue a Creative Writing degree because I was quite sure that with my moodiness and meager creativity, I wouldn't be able to make a decent living. And then the whole course-choosing-then-shifting thing happened. Through that and everything else I think I've proven that writing is my passion—something I'm sure I'll be doing for as long as I can, regardless of whatever career path I land on.
It's a good feeling to have something you can own. It's about time I claimed it, don't you think?