It’s 4:00AM and I’m still up… I used to complain about writer’s block, but now I’m suffering from artist’s block, and it sucks. Especially when you have a deadline to make. Doesn’t really differ much – except when you lose the client. Now, that hurts.
But then, being stuck on an artist’s block for weeks has somehow reminded me of what I missed: writing. I don’t know if I can still consider myself a writer now – I’ve been out of the loop for so long, and I never did manage to write something spectacular (or anything worth getting famous about). But I am proud of my writings – whether they’re the meaningless love poems or the intelligible philosophical poems, or my oft-too-serious ramblings on life and other thoughts.
And I still dream to be a famous novelist. Sincerely.
Somehow, I realize that sometimes we do try to achieve so much of something – and that makes us forget the pleasure of why we do some things in the first place. Well, they do say that we should find pleasure in our work, and that work and play should be interchangeable. But frankly – those stuff are easier said than done. And even games, when taken too seriously, can be rough. It can even lead to foul play.
I miss being a kid, where I can dream and believe that what I will be doing for the rest of my life would be something so awesome I won’t ever get tired of it. But I’m not a kid anymore: I’m 28, fighting the flab, trying to survive a living. I don’t have the stamina or the enthusiasm to match my teen friends.
Or do I?
Have I really stopped being a kid?
Artist’s block. Writer’s block. Kid’s block. What’s stopping us? What’s stopping you?
Okay, back to work.