Last Therapy

I used to write every time I’m sad or pissed off, or simply whenever I felt misunderstood. I wanted to write about all the things that bothered me. But after 199 posts, I stopped. I stopped writing because I didn’t have time to write. I stopped writing because I didn’t give it time. I stopped writing because finally, I realized how pointless it was to write.

I lost that drive already. I used to write to be heard (read) but I got tired. I used to write to achieve change but I got disappointed. After more than three years of venting in this blog, I decided to stop. I feel like I have lost all the words I wanted to say. I felt like I was writing in a blank space, with the paper just absorbing the ink.

Writing has become so difficult. It became a shout into the void — an empty call.

Can I blame you this once?

Let me rewrite this entire thing:

I used to write when I’m sad or pissed off, or simply whenever I felt misunderstood. But more so, I write when I can’t keep my thoughts and you’re not there to listen just yet. But after a few moments, you give my words time, acknowledgement, and most of all, response. Though they may not be directed to you,  you answered the thoughts in my head. Perhaps that’s what I really liked about you: the time you gave me and my thoughts even though they weren’t all about you.

I got used to writing about everything I felt, the heartaches, the petty stories, the random rants. I got used to not keeping them in anymore, to just grab my laptop and type everything I wanted to say or more of what I wanted you to know. This blog has been my mind’s sanctuary. It kept me sane.

Sadly, writing stopped being cathartic. I don’t remember how; I just know that it is now.

Do I blame you? Yes, I do. At least, let me blame you.

I have written you countless of times. I have written everything I wanted you to know. I let my guard down so you can grasp the best of it, unfiltered. But you ignored them. You no longer have that time to spare. I know there are a lot of things more important but a simple acknowledgement would have done the trick. I wrote a few more pages and still it seems to me like they were left unread. That one day, papers will just turn brown, ink fades, and my voice left unheard.

Do you know how it feels like shouting for so long just for someone to hear you until you just lost your voice? And when finally, he returns to listen to you, when finally he gets to make time, you no longer have the strength to utter a single word. All those times you wanted to be heard, they were gone.

I’m sad and I allowed myself to entertain my thoughts. I’ll find that strength to heal myself. At least this time, I’m not depending my sanity on someone else.

I’m giving up writing. For how long, I don’t know.