wabi - sabi

quattro

"𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢; 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝..."

I woke up in a state of tranquility.

Sitting up straight, I gazed upon the seemingly grayish sky through the window. I peeked more and thought that it might rain. It was cooler than usual, as I wasn't sweating one bit. The trees outside looked quite dull. But then I like it the way it is. I prefer the cooler weather. I feel as if when the weather's chill, I find myself calm as if the breeze has melted the stress caused by the usual sunny days.

At seven in the morning, I find myself lost in thought. I don't have much strength to get out of bed. I wanted to remain there and enjoy the slow mornings as much as I could. Vacations just make it easier to practice the slow and steady way of living. It's comparable to a melody that makes one feel fully relaxed and drift to sleep without any worries. Although I'd say staying in the house all day is rather boring.

In these kinds of moments, I recall an assessment of my life, of my growth, or my progress. Where am I right now? Certainly, I'm still at a point where I'm still not satisfied, yet I am also, at the same time, trying to figure out what kind of life I am aiming for. I suppose I do not want to spend the rest of my life investing in what is considered success by society's standards. I prefer to know where my soul and my intuition align, where I feel I'm most tranquil.

The younger me would have been prouder of the woman I've grown into. Undoubtedly, I have not achieved what she wanted through the lens of hurt, which is what she uses to see the world, but I know that she's happy that I am constantly able to find the path where I'm most blossoming. She would have been proud that I could finally take a step through my wishes as a writer, knowing so well how difficult it was for her to not be insecure about her capabilities. She would have been proud that I was already trying, as I had not even done such a thing back then. She would have been proud that my cowardice is something that I'm finally leaving, and now I dare to act upon what my soul wants.

I remember my younger self reading the school paper, yearning to write on the same page as her schoolmates. There had always been a longing to write, a huge desire to, yet she had often been rejected by the idea that she could never be like other people, or being compared to a friend, or being criticized by a friend. They seemed to be perfectly eloquent and extremely knowledgeable about the rules of grammar, punctuation, and the usage of high-flaunting words.

I could not compete with such people.

All I knew back then was that I wrote with my emotions. My emotions were all I had. I wasn't as perfect, as eloquent, or as knowledgeable as any of them. However, my heart yearns to write. It is so close to my heart that I cannot imagine life being taken away from it. It seemed as if writing was associated with my heart, with my emotions, with my deepest self. I hadn't even figured out that the only thing that separated me from that dream was my fear. It was the fear that I was not good enough and that others would just blame me for it. For years, I lived with that fear. I was merely discouraged by my own frightened, cowardly self.

At this moment, I realized that the solution to all that was simple; I only needed to try. I certainly cannot be the best writer overnight, but at the very least, I wanted my writing to be as similar to how I hold it close to my heart—that it remains authentic and raw, as an expression of my deepest sentiments and my humanity. I tried, and I wrote. And that was all the difference it had to make. I only had my cowardice defeated, and now I've finally made my step to change the course of my life and to do what I've feared yet yearned to do for years.

As I gazed upon the sky once more, the surroundings reflected those of orange, signifying it would not indeed rain. The air had become warmer, and it crept up into my skin, and so I felt my sweaty back and forehead. I slowly walked out of bed, brushing my hair and tying it into a bun afterward so I could get some fresh air outside. Circumstances like this make me realize that the stage was not yours to control. It is unpredictable and rather infuriating at times. However, that shouldn't be a reason to stop. Time does not wait for anyone. It passes by so easily that one day you just realize how much time you've wasted preparing for the perfect time. There is no perfect time. But you can certainly make use of the imperfections of that stage to your advantage.

I sat on the bench outside, inhaling the earthy scent and the nearly warm and fresh breeze of air from the trees, sighing while thinking to myself.

I write as an expression of my soul, while also healing a part of myself.

How about you? Maybe all you need to do is try, and that's all the difference it would make.

love lots,

aru.