Of Late...

Of late, I find immense difficulty in reading the writings of others. Others who are better, wiser and more articulate. Perhaps I am numb, they no longer reach out to me as they once did. They are simply this oasis of words that swirl before me. What I write makes much more sense. I stare and ponder over my writing for ages. I am narcissistic over my work.

I am close to the breaking point.

My writings flourished of late, or so I think. When one undergoes immense emotional angst, words are like a fountain flow. Albeit, dark and disjointed. Ah, I am a person of paradox. Did I not just lament that I am facing a desert of words? I am one strange being. Perhaps the thought of leaving my arts roots has made me hold on to the last vestiges of my literature training furiously. I fear being an ignoramus. I loathe being one. I scorn those fools.

Perhaps I made a foolish decision to tread along the business path, to be lead by the nose, to drift to the course like a boat drifts to the sea. Yes, that’s what I am – a drifter. Living by the day. Yet, I am living. Coursing down the streets of Singapore was not enough. I took it down to Japan. And yet it failed to ease my troubled soul. I continue this futile walk to nowhere.

I tread with trepidation into this tunnel of uncertainty. Is this going to be a road of perdition? Trapped in eternal emotional angst and toil.

When would liberation come? When can I move forth with stealth and certainty?
Till then, I walk alone.