I'm in rock bottom. It's been a while since I visited this account. I may sound quite irrelevant now. I may even sound pathetic (or maybe it is just all in my head). But I'm trying to reuse whatever is left of me. I can no longer return from what I was, but I can still be what I want and need to be.
With only few followers and readers, it often gets the better of me. I often get anxious and lost on what's my purpose in all of these writings. Is it for fame? Is it for the attention? Or is it because I badly want people to hear my stories? But to what extent? What would it benefit me?
Up until now, I haven't had any answers. Because of that I started losing my desire to write. Even a short-stanza poem is slowly becoming a challenge. And I become more terrified of what I am starting to become, all because of this unknown sadness and brutal anxieties.
That's why, recently, I am trying everyday to battle all of it. I started rereading my old works hoping to get that jump-start of motivation. And last week, I saw one stories that gave me a hint of hope.
I may not have any readers now, but that story is one of my most enjoyed work. A work that I haven't even shared to my family, because I made it out of my own entertainment. A work that doesn't care on anyone's opinion because it has freedom that I have always dreamed about.
This post may not reach anyone at this hour, but this will serve as my reminder that I have always fought my demons every time I fall.
I hope I can fully return to the free world of writing!
