A mental note written in a blog.

Guilty pleasure is an oxymoron I would not indulge in with this post.

I feel guilty for not having the time for you guys anymore.
I feel guilty for saying the things you don’t want to hear but have to.
I feel guilty for complaining, but not doing anything.
I feel guilty because all you’ve done for me is say okay when I can’t come but I freak out when you’re not there.
I feel guilty because even though we say we’re a group, people can’t see it since someone’s always missing.
I feel guilty for the fact that often, that someone’s me.

Excerpt: From http://theposterawakens-.tumblr.com/

Sometimes you can forget who you are.

Sometimes, or rather, often, seeing as I'm the case in point - I forget who I really am. When I look at all my previous posts, I am struck because I see a girl whose love in life next to living (which is obvious) is writing.

I miss writing about my life, writing about both superficial and deep words, I miss writing with no aim in mind but to please no one but myself and God.

I miss the times when I yearned to go home not to plunge myself in boredom and sleep but to write. Write until all the words my brain has managed to acquire in my 15 years of existence evaporated into the cold wintry air.

I miss those times.

I miss mental blocks, gruesome images of me having to cut my head off to explore the remnants of my brain, I miss all those.

It's time I relive the moments I've missed.

I must be boring.

My friend - who I look up to because of her undisputed writing skills - and I were talking about my writing when she told me this:

"Joy, you're good. Really, you are. You articulate yourself well. You write not so short and not so long essays, but you're boring. However informative or informal you're aiming to be, you always come of as an elitist, as one who guards her writing."

I'm sorry.