Wednesday, September 29, 2010

I wake up, it's a bad dream, no one on my side, I was fighting, but I just feel too tired to be fighting, guess I'm not the fighting kind

This is slowly becoming a drag more each day.

Office job really kills the energy, whatever of it I have left. I just sit here, and wait for the series to be up so I can hoard the office internet to download them. I refresh the multitude tabs of the social networks I'm a member of, in dire hope of something to really, truly inspire me. It has been a fruitless quest.

Writing for a Magazine has its perks I surely wouldn't have gotten anywhere else. Firstly, it's not much of a stress. Since Nachi arrived, it has been less boring, I now get someone to infinitely talk of hollywood memes and judge people with someone who really gets it. It's always nice to have more than just a familiar face. So no matter how laughable it gets inside the office, I'm not too much unnerved because we usually just smirk it off and de-stress by discussing feel-good tales, mostly memories of college, and The Jeep anecdotes. Not that it's really heavy -- well for now, at least it's not -- but from where we are at the moment, it's essentially an easy job.

Easy because we've been doing it for the longest time. Hunting for Human Interest stories, going down some place to interview, and bleed off in front of the computer to make an article out of it. It's life as far as we know it. Only now we get to do it without ridiculous side-homeworks from subjects we don't give a rat's ass for: we actually have all day, 5 days a week, to do our stuff. That's like liberty in a bottle, you just open the cap, and drink it all in. Plus, we get paid. How awesome, right?

And truthfully, I'm thankful for this job more than I'm thankful for anything in my life right now. I went through some pretty dark shit months ago, and this job has been more than like the end of the tunnel. It's actually a bit disarming sometimes to wake up every morning and realize that, no, Nami, you are not miserable anymore. Well, really, to not be depressed, because misery is just so much more complicated than being in the state of casual non-sadness.

Best of all, there is a very clear promise of a national byline soon. How soon, that depends on how hard Nachi and I are willing to work (haha) and ofcourse on the company's gamble choices. My cousin once joked me that this would all amount to nothing, because it's a new Magazine, and its genre is not so much mainstream, that maybe after one issue, we'd be laid off. And I just said that I didn't care. At the time, what's important for me was to have something to do, and not be depressed while doing it. So far, so good.

Maybe I'm just built this way. To want what I don't have. To be consistently in desire of something more, or something different. And that's pathetic, but I just can't find comfort in anything that's mine-- because anything I'm involved in is bound to end in the mediocrity bin. So I always beat myself up for things I couldn't do. Oftentimes, it's stories I cannot write. I've definitely grown more secure with my talent over the years-- that's saying I believe that I am a readable writer. That my pieces don't invite a lot of mocking judgments, and pity snickers for being too crappy. Or do they? My point is, I think I'm kinda decent. But this is my blog, I can commit grammatical error and dump shit all over this and it wouldn't be such a big deal because it's my life. And my life is basically just as drab.

But my stories, for publication later this year, or early next-- that is gonna carry my University, my Professors, my company, and most importantly, my career. Everything I will write, people will see, and If I don't do well, I'm committing a suicide. Not saying that we'd incur that immense readership, but this is something very personal, "If I can't be great at it, then I don't wanna do it." But do I have much choice? This is the only job that took me in, and frankly, it's the only one I wanna do now. So all this is up to me, and it's too much pressure. I usually find myself wrapping up stories out of hopelessness because if I linger around it, the more the suckyness shows, and the more depression creeps in. So I just send it out.

And while I wish it won't be torn apart into something totally unrecognizable, I also think that it could use some retouching. But there's this issue shared by the other writers here about the editorial leadership, and it's making me uneasy towards whether humbling down or standing my ground, even if it's just an internal battle. Many of you won't understand this, and might even think we're some sort of egoistic, lowless beginners to be challenging power this way, but when you see me, remind me to tell you the stories in which all of this were based on in the first place. If you're my batch mate, I'm confident you'd understand.

So my struggle? I need help with my writing. Any kind of indirect, implied, applied, mentored, suggested-- basically anything-- help just to hold me down because I'm fluctuating out of sanity. But I'm not getting it professionally, and by my severe insecurity, you probably already know I'm also not getting it personally. I guess what I'm saying is I desperately want to be better at this, and I feel like I'm so far from any of my dreams.

Having a Professor tell you you're not fit for Journalism is another blow to what is already a broken psyche. Maybe I just need some rush, some adrenaline, some energy to bring back what it used to feel to be doing what I'm doing. It's the best natural high because I've felt it at one point, but all of those are foreign to me now. Not even narcotics could take the place.

And there isn't even something to recompense. Books have done that to me quite a few times, but because the novel I'm reading now is boring the wits out of me, I am, again, left alone. But I don't know how to be social, I'm not a stickler to those rules -- befriending, dating, mingling -- I'm usually often confused, and don't know what I'm doing, so most of the time, I'd rather have my face stuffed on paperbacks. Not that I don't like to, trust me, I fuckin love it. But when I get to the page of so much passion, so much love, so much energy, and I just want to dog-ear the hell out of the paper, run around the house and grab somebody I could kiss, and hug, and probably make out with if I'm too damn carried away, but whenever it happens, there is no one there. And I just settle for a tumblr post, or twit, or facebook status, and one time, a creepy Group Message, just so I could have an outlet for firing emotions because if I don't let it out, I wouldn't be able to sleep.

My life is a ball of too many emotions, and there is not much to do about it but curl it up for the future when I can share it with somebody who'd understand. Maybe it's just hormones. Maybe it's because I've had my period for two and a half weeks now, and as my friend once observed, I usually go crazy during my awfully long menstrual phase. Maybe watching John Mayer with my best friends who are so much more of a fan than me will help, maybe I just need those kind of energy be pumped back to me. Music is always a pleasant salvation.

But I kinda need something long term here. I'm thinking of sponsoring a child in World Vision. Never a pet. Maybe getting a boyfriend? Definitely getting a boyfriend, but it's not exactly something you could just get. The universe would have to conspire first and the cosmos would still have to decide first before weaving our fates together and all that, and that just takes too long. I'm getting impatient.

This has been a ridiculously long vent-out, and I still have not started my story, which would be our maiden issue's cover. Imagine the pressure. Thus, this post.

God please help, but in the meantime, Tom Chaplin, thanks heaps.

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