Letters of Youth


Have you ever had a moment where there are too many thoughts? Your hands then itch for these sentiments to be written, however, at the moment that you are about to write, no words come out? Or when you have these scenes and situations in your head, only for it to be gone the very second you decided to write it down? How about bearing incredible scenes, thoughts, and ideas with no ways of casting it off?

/ 6 August 2020

That’s how I am, always. I lack the tools to shred these sentiments. And these scenes, as much as I always want it to be light and ravishing, can sometimes get burdensome and ugly. But no matter how unpleasant or brutal some of these thoughts are, they hold some truth.

Truth that may awake others; sewed words that can provide enlightenment. Harsh truths that people need to hear but do not want to accept.

I want to share these, not only to contribute to the world but to help myself. This human mind has long been craving for a taste of liberation from the fetter of internal wisdom.

Even with this strong desire, I lack the most important equipment, the fundamental tool: I lack words. It’s as if you are gifted with the most magnificent mechanical pencil, no other of such kind exists in the world. However, finding a fitting lead seems next to impossible. Therefore, it defeats its purpose. And now you’re left with the burden of keeping the extraordinary mechanical pencil. A possession too great to hide, and yet too useless to brag. A liability you cannot easily throw.

Nevertheless, I do search for leads. I read books – lots of books. At an early age, I was already terribly in love with reading books. I can’t wean off of it. And that’s where another internal turmoil starts. Why are words so hard for me? I have no problem with reading books with deep words or even words with archaic definitions. And yet, I couldn’t use most of those words when I am writing or even speaking. They’re just – poof! – gone.

And so, for the past six years of maundering for words, searching for solace, begging for alleviation, and drifting in between euphoria and misery, it’s shameful to share, more so to accept, that my story – this struggle– is nowhere near its climax, so far from resolution.

Over time, a resolution, for me, became something like a hopeless dream. Will I still be able to reach it someday? A myriad of unforgiving thoughts had already infested my mind. These countless thoughts that keep on waiting for an escape route. An escape route that only appears once in a blue moon. Above all, these thoughts? They never, ever settle.

Hay. Will there be a time where those words will flow like the river of five colors? Will there be a time of liberation? Will I find a fitting lead? Because I just couldn’t throw this mechanical pencil.