Something proper in nearly a year, how low I have fallen

I won't deny it.

It has been silent for a lengthy amount of time. My fingers, they have been sad. They weep. They weep for not being able to dance on the keyboards as they compose and weave a work of art, directed by the electrical pulses of the brain's creativity.

Speaking of this brain of mine, it has been rotting. Rotting not in a literal sense but more so, in a rather metaphorical theme. I haven't been writing, for a long time. After somewhat seemed like an endless sabbatical, a friend requested of my (decayed) talents. Talents that once I claim to be a gift, a pride of mine.

Wrote the article I did, and I completed it as soon as it was requested (after days of delaying). As soon as it was done, I gave it a quick look-see, as per usual any writers or artists would after completing their task.

I feel nothing. It was odd.

I did not feel the usual pride that comes with any written work I craft, whether it be on blogs or fiction. In fact, in its place, a whole feeling of disgust. A sense of disillusionment, and sadness icily enveloped me, as I read each sentence, saw each word.

Usually, I would discredit myself; I would, on purpose, drive a knife to my ego. I would taint my own sense of accomplishment of negative thoughts: People won't read, your whole post is too boring, etc.
I often wonder how many writers actually do this. Or even musicians or artists. I don't think that men and women of art and literature would tell themselves that their work is not worth the effort to put into it after they're done with it.

I perceive it differently though, amidst all that self hate and criticism. I believe that I will make myself write better, more consistently superior than any of my previous works.

People would come to me and say that my English is great, my written work is good, why didn't I pursue journalism, i.e, becoming a professional writer. But I would shoot all those encouraging opinions down modestly and publicly, while secretly storing all those compliments to myself. I do that.




But now, I thought of my work, this newspaper article, as the worst that I have ever written in all my years since I started to lift my first pencil in crafting an essay in English class at school. My friend, the receiver of that accursed article of mine, complimented graciously, even noting that the lecturer in charge of the newspaper project gave a noteworthy praise. Minus the grammatical mistakes, mind.

I fervently thought of that compliment was just something she'd throw my way, her way of being nice. I didn't really think my article was good enough for any newspaper, save a magazine or a free handout at that. I would keep all those opinions on myself as usual, and lead this friend of mine to think that I am being critical on my own work. 



And unrelated however, I just watched a movie, a Snow White and the Huntsman, a movie about the classic German fairy tale except it is darker and a more evil queen in its universe. The movie wasn't too bad, but it wasn't an all time favourite either. It was more of a, see-it-forget-it kind of thing. Something that you would just watch once, forget it and never watch it again.

But the soundtrack of the movie, is something else. It was what drove me to write this first actual blog post in months. A proper one, mind.


And, I am not sorry for this fragmented post of a movie and my decomposing writing skills.
Out.