I do not fancy being called a writer simply because I believe I am a novice at this craft. I may have written a mishmash of passing thoughts and a jumble of chronicled emotional outbursts but then again, those might not qualify me as a writer. And although there exist a contrast between being a writer and being a blogger somewhere along a fine line; it is however, not a pressing issue for me since I know that the distinction of both is something that I shouldn't be much paying attention to. For both allows the freedom of expression in ways that I see no difference at all. All I could ever precisely comprehend is that words are created base on the need to communicate. A lexicon, a jargon, layman's terms and highfalutin words; all of it generated from the need to deliver a message. A message that does not guarantee understanding and enlightenment for all but nonetheless, a message in itself.
In this world of chaotic and confusing misunderstanding and misinterpretation, words are my peaceful sanctuary; my little piece of heaven. They have become an integral part of my being and my most efficient way of making concrete ideas and tangible feelings. Writing has become my strongest voice in which I can never be dumbfounded. It has become an invaluable compendium of my reflections and realizations in this bizarre way of life. Most of all, writing is a good desolate friend that lets me share the ups and downs of living.
I should have done this before I provided my e-mail address and password to create a Blogspot account. That was a long time ago and I cannot recall why I haven't thought of this back then. Maybe it's the eagerness to start pouring my heart out through an abysmal slew of words or maybe the blabbermouth in me that hindered me to think about giving a forewarning to those who will be coming across this part of the World Wide Web. In the days that passed after the decision to put up my own egocentric online fib, I have written less and less given the demands of school and the struggles of keeping up with the pace of life that made me ignore my solitary companion; writing. It even came to a point where stagnation was crystal clear. And in that stagnant disregard, I lost touch with my inner voice.
Until recently, I have decided to resurrect my blog and seek refuge to the comfort that it once provided me. It felt awkward getting my reigns back and being in-charge again of my wild perspectives. But I'm glad for having to get by just fine. I do not plan to justify my freedom to use writing as my medium to convey and communicate. I'm not even sure if I'm writing for an audience or for posterity's sake or for the mere satisfaction of my need to rant. Hey, I’m not great at this, probably not even close to being fair. But in this eureka moment of mine, what is clear to me now amid my ever constant cluttered mind is that I will blabber about anything and everything. This is what I'm good at. I tittle-tattle and these are my boisterous thoughts.
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