a note on grief.

When I just discovered my passion, it seemed like a gateway to an undiscovered world had opened before me where I could write about things that only existed in the broad frame of my imagination. It was my first love; and like all things new and precious, I never wanted to let go of it.

Fast forward years later, I now stare at a blinking cursor and a blank screen, waiting to be filled up.

I miss my old self. That part of me that was excited to open my laptop and write till my arms began to ache, and even then I never stopped. The part of me that didn’t care who read whatever was on that page, but just wrote for the love of it. The part of me that had the confidence to showcase her writing, and didn’t care what anyone thought of it. The part of me who didn’t pander if a sentence was structured right, if it was written poetically, if it spoke the emotions I wanted it to. The part of me who didn’t hesitate to write down her ideas and create something out of them.

She’s gone now—a tiny whisper of the past.

I continue to reminisce, wishing that girl were back. I’m hunted by the ghost of her, that continually tells me not to care if my writing is perfect, or inspire as I hope it should. She tells me to just lay down my soul on that paper, to finally tell that story I’ve been wanting to. And I try to listen, I try, but like a little red demon on my shoulder, I can’t help but just continue to stare, and finally slap my laptop shut.

It’s a painful thing, like a part of myself is gone, and is slowly withering away. I want to be known for my writing, be celebrated for it, inspire generations with it. Yet, I can not shake the nagging feeling that the constant fear my work not being accepted will drown that dream and soon, it would be nothing more that—a dream.