I really suck at it. I never keep it up, I always filter myself, and I don’t have that many interesting thoughts.
Or maybe I’m afraid of letting others in to my thoughts. They’re not always pretty, and definitely not status quo.
My obsession with always being diplomatic stems from having to censor myself since I was young. It almost comes with the job of being Dutchanese. You can’t tell your grandmother she wastes food, she’s set in her ways. You can’t laugh if your auntie farts halfway through a conversation. And you have to, have to, eat whatever she puts on the table. Regardless whether or not you like it.
I always wanted to write. From a young age, putting words to a page felt like a freedom of expression. My (now dead) first computer’s hard drive, which is now lost in the attic back home upstairs, probably has about 40 short stories floating around in it. Mostly to do with love, because I never understood it, and also I was a teenager taking love life cues from cheesy TV shows.
Now, as I’m having my quarter-life crisis, I feel that it’s time to pick up the pen again. I miss academics, I miss writing. I miss being frustrated over how to put something into words and produce a somewhat coherent set of ideas. But WHAT ideas? I don’t have school to guide me, or a fantastically mesmerizing life to spell out. I get up, go to work, come home, feel exhausted, and am angry at the world for letting me down, when I should be blaming myself.