These past months I've received few personal messages telling me that I should write more and that my writing has been missed.
First message struck me as something trivial, but the next ones, from each different individuals, started to seep through me.
I've almost forgotten how therapeutic writing has always been for me.
How it enabled me to overcome some of the biggest obstacles and fears I have yet to face.
I remember how I'd genuinely crave to put my thoughts into words, to inject each and every scattered feelings, to feel as if I was about to explode and that I have to write over and over and over and over of how sad or how happy something, or someone would make me feel.
Writing has always been my comfort zone.
I have been busy doing what I thought as 'living my life'.
Perfecting my what I thought would be the guarantee of my happiness, building what I thought would be my safety net, I forgot what exactly makes me happy.
I am aching for safety, stability, security, and any other things that would keep me away from harm. After all I am only human with reasonable amount of fear and insecurities.
But then I've realized that I have been putting aside my happiness.
Trading my passion for stability.
My source of happiness for security.
And worse, my time, the only thing I could never got back, for constant fear of succumbing into a dull, boring adulthood, and soon will be forgotten as my corpse is ageing and my clock is ticking.
There's a saying which goes 'The only thing standing between me and my happiness is reality"
But I refuse to believe in that.
The only thing standing between me and my happiness is not reality, it is me.
I have the control over which reality I am living in.
I have the control of taking and putting and balancing which aspect of my life I want to pursue more, or most.
I have almost forgotten that what other people might seen as reality is not the reality I, myself, have to live in.
This is me, getting things out of my chest.
This is me, savouring the comfort writing has always been giving me.