Before starting to deal with unimportant mumbles of mine, perhaps it might interest you to acknowledge things that serve as the reason behind my creating new blog
(despite having one that had been running for quite some times)
(no, I’m not trying to be modest here)
and behind the naming of this very blog.
PERHAPS, I said.
If it is apparently not then I will gladly suggest you to slide right to my next post,
or just simply surf to other seem-to-be-more-interesting ones.
Yet if it somehow oddly takes your interest, please do carefully guide your eyes fixed on the very next row I’m going to type.
I need refreshment.
I simply am.
I’m bound to write, for writing serves as catharsis to this unsociable soul
(any, unsociable beings)
(thank god there’s catharsis such as writing).
Yet I can no longer write in my old blog. If you ask me, I will most likely shrug my shoulder for my inability to yield any direct reasoning. I haven’t written in it for quite long (months), and every time I try to greet it by getting some pretty philosophical phrases (yuck) posted, certain feeling of unfamiliarity refrain me from doing so.
That kind of feeling, when you’re getting excited about meeting your (very) close friend whom you haven’t interacted to for some times, yet when the encounter comes naught but awkwardness lingers between you two, for neither you nor your friend know how to start even the utmost trivial conversation. Or how to respond to kind words each other’s been saying. You’ve just simply forgotten.
And just like that, both of you simply drift away.
…That is what’s going on between I and my old blog.
Or between I and my other friend(s).
You see, if my terrible relationship with my old blog awfully prevents me from doing this obligatory (well, for me) ritual, I’d say: why don’t I just make new one?
So I did,
along with the hope that my writings will render different tones from the previous ones
(as every brand-new-things usually are),
since this is now brought in concept: that I’m a tale whisperer.
Self-proclaimed ones, to be exact.
About a week ago, it struck me all of sudden: a thought that irresistibly gave me rush of excitement.
An answer to question I’ve been enquiring for some times. Question that any ambitious human being would likely to utter at certain point of his life: their own purpose of living. And while numerous individuals are still in endless quest to find their purpose, mine oddly came to me just like that.
Whoops, pardon my bragging.
It came after moments of contemplation and numerable train of thoughts, actually. I was then brought to be aware of the existence of stories carried by every single entity in this universe. Every single entity, as in both living beings and not-pretty-lively beings. Even winds do whisper, trees do chatter, if only we were care enough to bother. It amuses me, to think that a single tale could’ve been told differently by different entities, with different perspectives and varied degree of interest. Yes, I do believe that stories are not thence created from vacuum space. They are already there, scattered, lingering, waiting to be unleashed. Some tales are lucky enough to have the chance to be publicly known and adorned, while the rests are–though not at all less significant–unfortunately remain untapped.
Then the thought of assigning myself to this task gave me thrill–only god knows why. As if you’ve finally remembered forgotten words that cling right at the tip of your tongue. It was then decided: I dedicate myself to be a medium of those untapped tales. Medium that conveys stories–as well as thoughts–right to those who are desperately in need.
It excites me, it excites the hell out of me. Because it IS exciting. And it serves as justification for my lately-developed interest to learn–literally–anything. It does, simply because of such simple logic that I couldn’t have been a medium for certain-topic tales if I didn’t firstly possess adequate knowledge about it: the story won’t come to me. Hence I am also assigned to be a life-time learner, which actually is obligatory for human of quality.
It feels right, it feels incredibly right,
for I believe that the chores which could be considered as noble are the ones that are devoted for the sake of other people, instead of ones that are committed to chase one own’s glory.
Perhaps so, yet what’s entirely wrong with that?
If I can’t put even a single jot of hope to what’s ideal, I don’t know what else I should hold myself onto.
I shall then cross my finger,
hoping that I will always be reminded to what I’ve been typing here, and not to stray too far from it.
Well, anyway… Lest that I’m issuing further self-disclosure up onto a degree that renders you unnecessary and uninterested to stroll in this tiny space of mine, I’d probably better bid my goodbye now.