Writing this while listening to Yamazaki playing Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 and Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 21 “Waldstein”
Anyway I’m not sure what I want to write since I don’t exactly have anything great in mind, but I think do have something that I’ve always wanted to say. I restarted my blog wanting to have an online diary because I think I actually want people to know what I’m feeling without me having to tell them myself. Writing a diary in a book just feels depressing to me, and I gain no relief from it. I was pretty sure that no one’s going to read it, though, so I prepped up this blog for my own satisfaction. I gave it a pretty theme, a playlist and everything, but deep down, I know that I want people to see it. I really didn’t expect an audience, though, except a friend of mine that knows about my blog. I don’t think my “best friends” even know that I blog. But people actually read it and commented, and I honestly felt kind of embarrassed now that I know people read those shameful posts I’d written.
Until this week, I thought about why I write. I mean, I know I wanted to be a writer, but why do I even write in the first place? I do have some things I’d like to share with other people, but I always find it hard to put them into words. I’m not exactly talented in anything particular, including writing, so why? Is it just because that I like it?
But I’d found the answer. I write to heal myself. I have all these problems and I used to spill them all to a certain individual but I sort of stopped because of…something complicated that only I can understand. And ever since, these untold difficulties have been slowly eating me from within and it’s ruining me. So I write. I write simply to help myself from falling apart. I write because no one else is capable of saving me from breaking. It doesn’t make me feel awfully better, but it does help a little.
I feel like I’ve been floating around aimlessly for as long as I can remember, nearly leaving sanity, but something always seemed to anchor me to the ground. It wasn’t heavy enough to keep me on the ground for long, but it was enough to keep me from straying. But honestly I could feel my anchor getting heavier and heavier. I think every now and then we need that kind of anchor, and most of the time that anchor comes in a form of a human being. Every time I see him, gosh, just the way he exists is already enough for me to be happy, even just for a bit. He keeps me anchored to reality and I owe him one for that. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to thank him properly, but I’m glad that I’d thanked him for what he did in a not very direct way. Yes, I like what he does for living. It’s magic. It’s a miracle. It’s remedy for a broken soul. I don’t know if he knows it, but heals me every now and then.
I ask myself sometimes, will it be different if it’s someone else? Isn’t what he does can easily be done by some other gifted individuals? Why did I stop myself in front of a particular house? There are plenty other bigger, more outstanding looking houses, but why did I stop in front of this one? Am I meant to heal myself in this house before I get back on my perilous journey? I don’t know. I really have no idea. God has mysterious ways in doing things and I probably will never be able to fully comprehend it.
Regardless, I’m happy that I chose this particular house. If I could explain it in words, I’d say that it’s a two story house in a quiet small town by the mountain. It looks grand on a glance, but if you look at it again, it actually looks quite modest. The rooms look like the ones in European houses in the 40’s and they’re surprisingly warm all year long. The house will be vacant every once in a while, but once there are people in there, it’s always so cheerful like Christmas for an extended period. There’s a five foot Steinway sitting in the living room, and it rarely stops making beautiful sounds.
I never want to leave this place.
Anyway I’m not sure what I want to write since I don’t exactly have anything great in mind, but I think do have something that I’ve always wanted to say. I restarted my blog wanting to have an online diary because I think I actually want people to know what I’m feeling without me having to tell them myself. Writing a diary in a book just feels depressing to me, and I gain no relief from it. I was pretty sure that no one’s going to read it, though, so I prepped up this blog for my own satisfaction. I gave it a pretty theme, a playlist and everything, but deep down, I know that I want people to see it. I really didn’t expect an audience, though, except a friend of mine that knows about my blog. I don’t think my “best friends” even know that I blog. But people actually read it and commented, and I honestly felt kind of embarrassed now that I know people read those shameful posts I’d written.
Until this week, I thought about why I write. I mean, I know I wanted to be a writer, but why do I even write in the first place? I do have some things I’d like to share with other people, but I always find it hard to put them into words. I’m not exactly talented in anything particular, including writing, so why? Is it just because that I like it?
But I’d found the answer. I write to heal myself. I have all these problems and I used to spill them all to a certain individual but I sort of stopped because of…something complicated that only I can understand. And ever since, these untold difficulties have been slowly eating me from within and it’s ruining me. So I write. I write simply to help myself from falling apart. I write because no one else is capable of saving me from breaking. It doesn’t make me feel awfully better, but it does help a little.
I feel like I’ve been floating around aimlessly for as long as I can remember, nearly leaving sanity, but something always seemed to anchor me to the ground. It wasn’t heavy enough to keep me on the ground for long, but it was enough to keep me from straying. But honestly I could feel my anchor getting heavier and heavier. I think every now and then we need that kind of anchor, and most of the time that anchor comes in a form of a human being. Every time I see him, gosh, just the way he exists is already enough for me to be happy, even just for a bit. He keeps me anchored to reality and I owe him one for that. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to thank him properly, but I’m glad that I’d thanked him for what he did in a not very direct way. Yes, I like what he does for living. It’s magic. It’s a miracle. It’s remedy for a broken soul. I don’t know if he knows it, but heals me every now and then.
I ask myself sometimes, will it be different if it’s someone else? Isn’t what he does can easily be done by some other gifted individuals? Why did I stop myself in front of a particular house? There are plenty other bigger, more outstanding looking houses, but why did I stop in front of this one? Am I meant to heal myself in this house before I get back on my perilous journey? I don’t know. I really have no idea. God has mysterious ways in doing things and I probably will never be able to fully comprehend it.
Regardless, I’m happy that I chose this particular house. If I could explain it in words, I’d say that it’s a two story house in a quiet small town by the mountain. It looks grand on a glance, but if you look at it again, it actually looks quite modest. The rooms look like the ones in European houses in the 40’s and they’re surprisingly warm all year long. The house will be vacant every once in a while, but once there are people in there, it’s always so cheerful like Christmas for an extended period. There’s a five foot Steinway sitting in the living room, and it rarely stops making beautiful sounds.
I never want to leave this place.
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