Visiting an old fictional series I wrote years ago, I realized how I missed writing, just like how I sometimes suddenly miss an old friend.
As I perused the work, the carefully selected words to create a world and images that paints a picture in the head, I thought…I would never be able to write the same way again. The realization was devastating, but as with life, we move on from the pain.
I love writing.
May it be someone else’s or me doing the act, I love it. I’ve said it before and I’ll repeat it always, it had saved me from a dull perception of my waking days as an adolescent. I didn’t have any heartbreaks or big challenges during that period, and perhaps that was exactly the reason I detested the linearity of my waking life: I was bored; writing was my escape. It was my friend in all those afternoons alone in the house with uncertain thoughts and increasing questions of lurking conspiracies, the other side of life, and if life was just a dream.
Somehow, through the years, I developed a love for stories, and I was able to produce more stories: lengthier, more varied, and more imaginative. Eventually, I gave birth to a story which, until now, makes me feel that I dreamed the whole time I wrote it. I love dreaming. I loved writing it. Even when I revisited it today, I still couldn’t believe where my words came from, and couldn’t help but wonder where my words are today.
Those words, those thoughts, the vitality I once had in my stories and as a writer, perhaps ran away along with my age. I pushed it back as far as I could to place what life demanded I give priority to, and after several years of not pulling them back to the surface, they realized it was time to walk away.
Nonetheless, I could say that in my early 20s I was able to create a master piece. My master piece.
I understand now that I don’t have to be so frustrated anymore whenever I try to write and the same feel does not come out. I can’t have it back. I can’t have that time back. Time is an evasive lover. You can have it for a while, lather yourself within its attention, but it will always run away with the memories you created, and you will always, always long for it. Thus, I can never recreate the story I wrote when I was 22 years old. That 22 year old me had different dreams, perspectives, and voice. I am 28 now, way past the quarter life and underway the third decade, so perhaps I can produce a story someday that will speak of who I am at 25, 28, or even 30.
I can’t be the same awesome writer I once thought of as my younger self because I cannot go back in time, but I can be a different kind of writer now. Maybe I won’t be as good, I’m sure it will even be rusty; nonetheless, the 28-year-old writer has strengths the 22-year-old doesn’t have, so perhaps I can raise myself up and move forward from that.
I know, I would never write the same way again.
I am accepting it.