Elusive Dream

Whenever I say I am a frustrated writer, I mean it.
With every fiber of my being, I knew it.
I am. A frustrated writer.

Now, now, maybe some of you would raise their brow and say, how could it be?
When she's been writing thirty plus stories/poems here and still counting?

If you happen to know me a few years back, or maybe personally, you'd say that yes, indeed.
She'd lost her touch.

She could no longer write.

And that is so true.

For years I've been in denial.
Denying the fact that I could no longer write stories, stories that could make someone's heart skip a beat.
Stories that could make someone laugh.
Or maybe even cry.

But it's time to wake up. From dreams and reveries of the past.

It's time to face the music.

And admit to myself that yes. I could no longer do it.

I've lost my gift.

And that broke my heart into million pieces.
To say I'm deeply hurt was an understatement.
I fell apart.
More heartbroken than that time when I realized that the one I liked doesn't even liked me back.
That I just assumed that somehow, he felt the same way.
He never did.
Well, I heard he's gay now.
So, yeah.
There's no  point crying over spilled milk.

Writing novels then, was just a piece of cake to me.
And no, I am not trying to be conceited here.
I can finish five chapters for a week.
And a complete novel in a month.
But that's all in the past now.
Right now, I can't even finish a single chapter.

No spark.
No inspiration.
I'm stuck.
To ideas I can never materialize into words.

Sometimes, I just want to give up.
To give in.
Why am I doing this to myself?
What's the point?
When every time I try to write, I came up with nothing.
Just an empty piece of paper and a blank Microsoft Word staring back at me.
It tears me apart.
Every. Single. Time.

Sometimes I just want to listen to them.
To the voices inside my head.
That I am never that good anyway.
That it is I, who only think that I can actually write,
That every time I write I'm just scribbling nonsense.
That being a writer was never for me.
Never for a coward like me.
To a quitter like me.
That's what I did before.
I turned my back to my dream.
I set it aside.
For things I know matters but never really gave me the immense satisfaction.
I knew that. But I still did that.

And now, after all these years, how naïve of me to think that after I took it for granted, I could take it all back in just a snap of a finger?
No. I am so wrong.
I've lost it.
The natural way I  write before? I no longer possess it.

Maybe, this was not all my fault.
Maybe it has something to do with life.
Shattering the dream of the foolish young girl.
Thinking that life is a bed full of roses.
That it's all about rainbows and unicorns.
But life didn't prepared her that roses have thorns.
And life sometimes, is a bag full of shit.
Deflating this foolish girl's dream.

I don't know where this sea of life will take me.
But all I know is
For now
Even if it's not for me.
Even if I'm not destined to be one.
Even if I totally lost my gift.
I won't give up.
This time, I won't turn my back.
I'll hold on to it, for dear life.

Maybe, all these nonsense that I write today in time, will finally make sense.
And someday, I'd see my books on that bookstore's shelves.
That someday, I'd be able to inspire.
To pierce a soul.
To change someone's life for the better.

For now I'll be a dreamer.
What do you know?
Dreams do come true, right?