Revisiting the World of Words

It's difficult to be born an artist in this modern world where expediency is the key to survival, not leaving much room for the expression of the soul. We live during these times when our creative juices are squeezed tight to drop a few coins in the pocket and have something to eat on our plates each single day. For others, it is even worse because they have to feed not only their own mouths but their family members' too. Whatever happened to the imaginative fabrication of ideas and emotions for the sake of just art itself? Where has the period gone when artists were placed on a pedestal not for being famous but merely for having been blessed with such talent? Where had it disappeared when works of art, whether manuscripts or paintings or mere conceptualizations, were all considered masterpieces in their own essence? Somehow, somewhere in the timeline of history, it had all faded away. Or had gone into hiding.

From the time I had learned to read and write, I had been engulfed in the realm of words. I had discovered the magic of words--- how they could transport you to worlds that went beyond reality, how I could use my pencil like a magic wand to create my own universe and mold my life in an uncanny planet of my own. It had become my escape, my stronghold, as I groped my way through the awkward stages of my childhood then into an adolescence that gripped me like an unwilling prisoner. You see, I was kinda dorky in my younger years. A bit anti-social. Clumsy in physical activities. A wallflower in the classroom. Yes, I was an academic achiever. But it comes to a point early in life when you realize that the norms of society seem to require a different kind of accomplishment for you to fit in. I wasn't a good fit. Not very much, anyway... However, when I was engrossed in a story, I could lose myself in it. The people around me would melt away. The physical objects around me would morph into the world painted by the author. What a great feeling! It gave me the power to be clear of anyone's reach. Thus, once I had begun to compose my own words, beginning with poems and short stories and then later on progressing into essays and novel-like narrations, I had felt empowered. In this way, I ceased to be the pot. I was the potter.

As I grew older, my imagination swirled into clouds of deeper reflections. My writing developed depth. The technicalities became second nature. My favorite pastime during class in high school was to come up with bits of writing, sometimes serious and sometimes hilarious or weird, at the back of my notebook. I could do this while taking down notes of my teachers' lectures. There are times when I would envision a peculiar scenario with my seatmate as the lead role and then have her read it. We would then try to stifle our laughter so as not to catch the teacher's attention. Other times I would actually try to come up with my own "pocketbooks" (I even pasted magazine cut-outs of girls on the covers of the notebooks to stand as the lead characters!) which my classmates would pass around. Writing made life more fun for me.

Slowly I came out of my shell. I learned to socialize and my interests widened. I spent more time out of the house, gabbing with friends, malling, or hanging out. I wrote less and less, until I finally lost touch with this magical world. I became more bound by the reality I had tried to elude at the start. It just hits you one day, when you realize you are getting older because all your fantasies need to have limitations already. And nothing seems to be for free anymore. Everything has to make sense. Time becomes so precious that creative writing for its own sake appears a waste. When I got to college and even after college, writing was merely for research and other work purposes. It was a requirement, which put a strain on its essence. I had become a victim of the pragmatism that poisoned creativity--- the same creativity that had allowed me to survive the struggling times in my earlier youth.

I guess some people simply cannot understand how writing, or any art form for that matter, can be so enthralling. They cannot grasp the fact as well how writers and musicians and other artists could passionately spend so much time and effort carefully crafting their works of genius without giving any thought to the monetary profits. It is indeed saddening to be born in these present times where art for art's sake seems unthinkable. In this age, we choose what is more practical with a heavy heart. Yet at the end of the road, after we have put our passion aside, perhaps there is hope in reclaiming it from its hiding place. At this point of my life, I may not be stable enough yet. But unexpectedly, I had come face to face with the dream I had said goodbye to...or thought so. Little by little, I am coming into terms again with my writing. I am reintroducing myself to the domain of language I had buried for so long, using a different medium this time but feeling my heart soaring in the same sky. I am revisiting the world of words...and maybe staying for good. Oh, how rewarding it would be if I could just write about anything I want or paint any picture of my desire and get paid for it on a regular basis! I love being in the teaching profession, but as they say, it's really not a lucrative job. On top of that, there are other things I wish to venture in , such as writing, without having to worry about the paycheck. But then it's not how things are for I wasn't born with a silver spoon. I have to work hard to stay afloat and to afford a few luxuries that give me temporary satisfaction. With it comes a maturity and a meaningful, well-lived life that I know will be of greater use someday. Then when all has settled and I can finally break free of the clasps of today's practicality, I can focus on my passion. I can live my dream and embrace my passion much, much more than I ever had.