Final

 

 

I was once a writer. A writer who once brought words to life, as my heart displayed on each page. Each blank canvas was filled with paint, overflowing with uncontainable creations, be it full of color or black and white. I was once a writer who had no care in the world—no doubts. Just me and my characters, talking verbally yet non-verbally.

 

But Jealousy came in between. Jealousy. What an ugly word. Jealousy tempted me in every way possible; thoughts that I have not experienced before, but now have came across with, because jealousy was there to teach me all the way.

 

“Oh, look at you, my dear. Have you ever looked at yourself? Unoriginality is marked all over your body. Inspired to be a writer? Don't kid with me. Have you seen her writing? Yeah? Exactly”. My breath hitched. The green substance slowly swallowing me, bringing me down to a pool of doubt, and of course, jealousy.

 

“You're right. She is better than me. Why can't I write like her? Why didn't I think of that?” Envy danced and swirled around my head, taunting me as it reminded me of what I lacked.

 

But of course, I tried to wave it off as I continued to write. Although one thing stuck to me like glue, persuading me to do this and that as I wrote. It was Jealousy knocking on my door. “C'mon now, write like her. You want to be a writer right? She's the epitome of a writer, try to be her, for she's someone you want to be, right?” I smiled bitterly, contemplating if I should.

 

Guilt. Another person I once knew as a child. When I stole those secret stashes of chocolate chip cookies my mom hid from me. My sweet little guilt trip to chocolaty heaven.

 

I had written with those kind of thoughts. With every single sentence I made, with every single space, and letter. The only thoughts that crossed my mind was: Am I now amazing as her? Jealousy smiled at its accomplishment, the bloody ink dripped to its final drop.

 

The characters I had made has died; sreaming for help as I wrote with every dialogue. They looked at me with hatred. Their eyes that once was filled with trust, now were filled with feelings of betray. They shook their heads to their last breath, as they stared at me with half-opened eyes, “You monster”, they whispered.

 

I dropped my writing implement, my hands limps to the sides, fingers numb. What have I done?  I stared at the canvas before me—words unreadable, even if it was me who had wrote it. But I felt as if those words weren't mine.

 

One by one, tears trickled down my face as regret stung through my heart.

 

I was once a writer. A writer who trusted everything I wrote, because what I wrote was the reflection of myself. 

 

I remembered a quote, a quote I don't remember quite clearly, but I think it had gone like this: “Writing is a way of talking without being interrupted.” 

 

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A/N: Jealousy wasn't something I was quite a fan of, ahaha... Anyways, I wanted to share this because I simply didn't want to keep this locked in my heart  ^.^  I want to write again with those thoughts out of my mind and this seems to be the only way I could shoo the thought away :P Also, for those writers out there, you should focus on writing stories that you think you're proud of. Write for yourself. And don't kill your characters, you'll be sent to literary hell. C8  lol I'm such a hypocrite. Holy shit. I might be just the only person with these kind of feelings. OAO

 

P.S

I wrote this on another site (AFF blog) a long time ago but I decided to put it up here too :P