It's like throwing away old food in the refrigerator, food that I saved and hoped to eat one night but never did. It's the space that appears and the air and light that circulates.
I feel I can breathe again, for some reason.
For the past few months, I resisted being neat and clean, because I was lazy and tired, but mainly because I was following a thread of hope: I had hoped I was being led to a realization, a rare insight.
Quietly, in bits, I have been getting my insight. A few key pieces in a giant jigsaw puzzle. I am so excited to see how it looks like.
Back in college, I nursed an ambition to become a writer. I rationalized that I had to be egotistic, to never doubt myself. It didn't work. It doesn't work that I forced the feeling, and the will, and the confidence. These things, I am slowly realizing, cannot be forced.
Everyday, you have to decide to be a writer. This is so far from true.
Nowadays, to get a glimpse of this new horizon before, I simply have to pause and listen to my thoughts. It's as simple as turning a street corner or reaching for a glass of water.
And it's not just in writing. It's also in everything else, especially errands and housework.
There it is. I am moving my hand. I am not judging myself, or forcing myself.
I am waiting for the moment where I can sit down and whip up a draft of a novel or short story. I look forward to letting my mind explore itself as I document the words that come out.
I still do want to be writer. An artist too, and everything creative. Maybe this is the time for me. Maybe this is the time. Maybe I am arriving to where I should be.