Sipping on a cup of barley and black soybean tea and nibbling on some sticky-sweet apricot danish, my mind wanders to the hidden stash of notebooks and papers I keep tucked away in my bedroom.
These are printed manuscripts and long passages and scribbled half-ideas from my teenage years, all packed into one large box; mostly forgotten, because I no longer find myself inspired to write. The box sits there, unopened months at a time.
Occasionally, I find time to look through my work, and I think to myself: “one day, I will finish this, and maybe have it published”. But then, I just place whatever it is back in the box, along with whatever wishful ideas I have for the future, and shut the lid tight.
All my teenage life, I’d been an avid writer. Now, I am 22. Perhaps I have stopped writing because the time I wrote best was also a time of confusion, heartbreak, loneliness and quiet contemplation.
Looking back, my late teenage years were filled with tragedies and mistakes I couldn’t fix. Running to pen and paper was my form of release. I could hide away in a different world. My utmost creativity seemed to stem from my refusal to cope with reality.
Today, I no longer need to find solace in writing because I have everything that makes me happy. And with this, it seems that my creativity has all but dried up. It’s a real shame, but perhaps this is a good thing. At least there’s still my camera to keep me occupied.