They call it a “writer’s block”. I dare not. I find it slightly conceited to call my lack of inspiration with a term authors rightfully use. I’m no writer, but I find deep solace and peace whenever I pour out my thoughts in words. That serves me well enough.
I cant remember how or why, but I have always been in-love with metaphors, with paradigms, oxymoron, riddles, words I don’t quite understand but felt a sense of connection, of understanding, of grasps on things that is unclear but I knew existed. Somewhere along my childhood days of daydreaming and musing, I found myself falling inlove with words, of poetry and lyrics, of phrases and hymns, of love songs and elegy. They are my first love. And in my own self absurdity, I somehow knew they loved me back.
I kept about a dozen old notebooks, countless papers and loveletters, pictures and postcards. I feel a sense of celebration whenever I browse through them and realize how life has treated me so far. And in my own sudden and capricious idea, I knew I wanted something like this. Something to remind me that my life is well lived.