maybe i got bored of writing.
either that or...im just lost these days - uninspired, i just dont have that specific survival agenda anymore.see, writing without agenda is ultimately pointless... like a song re-written again and again . a song which started as something pointless like 'negaraku' perhaps, only to be made even pointless. what is the whole point of that?
or maybe like negaraku, i am myself pointless, sigh. so pointless these days... and whats even worse is that i don't even feel angry about it. well, not as much as i used to,and not as much i would love to. why am i not angry? i am not really sure, maybe i just dont care, or maybe my caring perimeters of those around me shrunk, it was never that sizeable anyway...
or maybe the fact that i began to accept existence and to what i could not accept, i get frustrated... and the very deal about frustration is,everyone has them, too many are caught in this fundamental dis-utopia and would love to freely discuss about it everyday so why would mine matter.
or perhaps i've been reading too many and decided that too many writers have too many to say but too little of it matters. ive always thought that writers who write too many books are just so full of themselves. (especially for books exceeding an inch in height) - which is why oftenly these days i prefer reading online literatures... and inevitably blogs - and in the case of blogs, i guess too many want to write,or aspire to but so little of them actually can.and for fear of being the latter... i decided to quit the crowd.
not until a couple of days back though, when i was scourging the laptop looking for past nonsensicals, i stumbled upon a piece of unfinished scribbling. it was just plain whimsical, for its entirety - and that however, reminded me of why i started writing in the first place...see, as i grew to firmly believe that one should write the way one should speak and one should be believable when he speaks in order to write something that matters... it gets harder and harder to write... i mean if one feels that nobody believes in him... what is the whole point of writing then?
but as i was shifting my numb buttcheek, left to right and right again trying to make sense of whatever i was reading, i realised one thing, none of everything matters... if its not yours, thoughts don't matter...if its not yours, ideas don't matter if its not yours, in fact nothing shouldn't matter in the first place - if its not yours... it is in this euphoric individualism that only an average person could thrive.
but then again, why would i care about you believing me, in fact why would i care about being believable anyway? life doesn't care about being believable. and to not care about being believed is the reason why i started writing in the place.
hence, i decided to write again.