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Monday, August 11, 2014

Cowardice 2


 “Bakit hindi ka na nagba-blog? (Why are you not blogging anymore?)”, asked Mel, a travel blogger, who also has the honor of being one of my closest friends the last time we reunited for catching up. I told him I’ve been active on Twitter which is still blogging, but on a micro level. That ended the conversation for the moment, but not the topic. His question lingered on my mind. For someone who now is more aware than ever of the power of the written word in my life (I’ve rediscovered my INFJ characteristics this year), this is a disturbing question I really had to find an honest answer for. The obvious answer is of course, that something is holding me back.

Truth is, I’ve been writing. I have a 52kb text file of drafts and ideas for 2014 alone. But most of that is unfinished. My new blog, The Procrastinating Librarian, is also suffering for want of direction. I could still not decide what to write on it, hence the continuing silence. But what has been niggling on my mind is the fact that my friend’s question remained on mind and demanded an answer. It mattered. I knew that much should have been posted there already. He was right to ask.

My blog posts for the last two years have been trivial to what was actually happening inside me. I have been heartsick for the longest time, yet did my best to not write- nah, rant about it. I could not exorcise my pain and anger and has refrained from writing about it online. But it was not because I do not want to acknowledge that I’ve been living in darkness again. It is mainly because I grew tired of seeing my angry thoughts over and over again, the bitterness and pain repeatedly manifesting themselves in my words. My brokenness was borne out of a number of stressful things – family, personal purpose, but it was the disillusionment over friendships that eventually laid me low.

I refused to write about my broken heart because I did not want to say things that will be hurtful for those who have hurt me, even if they’re no blog readers of mine. I do not want revenge. I do not want to involve them in mud-slinging. I figured if they did not know what they’ve done, there’s no point in telling because ultimately, they’d never understand anyway. I guess I’m just notorious for always trying to do the decent thing because that’s how I’ve been raised by my parents. I also just realized while I’m writing this that I refrained from writing about how I felt with the things they did because there’s a part of me that wants to preserve the things that have been good; and I was just too messed up before to see that it is possible to wring out the bad parts yet still be able to hold on to the nice ones; that both parts are essential to any story.

A part of me remains angry, remains grieving, but I’m slowly gaining control over my emotions and preparing to squeeze my heart out of negativity. I just needed time to rediscover the person that I am and what I’m really worth; to weed out the things that I’ve absorbed that aren’t really mine; to redefine my values and the life that I really aspire to live. And I know now more than ever, the healing power of being able to express myself…

In spite of my earlier fears, I am now “telling”. This one is for my heart. 



August Bernadette
kaigachi is a conjugation of the Japanese term "kigaicha" or crazy. It roughly translates as "crazy about something."

"One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light but by making the darkness conscious." - C.Jung

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