THE TEA'S CHAPTER 5: EMPTY PAGES

CHAPTER 5: EMPTY PAGES

It'll be fine. You don't have to worry.

These are the few words that I always have to remind myself of and comfort myself with before going out into the battle that I am never familiar with, specifically with writing. I have been in this field for quite some time now, and all I could say is, it is still hard. It has never been an easy road. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into this dream to make it work. It didn't happen all at once. It didn't sink in just in time. It wasn't an all-night dream. Instead, it was a long road full of doubts. It was a long period of time in my room, full of madness and questions. But just when I decided to come out and label myself as one, that's when the paper became white, the ink stopped bleeding, and words started to crumble.

It was a total blackout for me. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I was overwhelmed. I could not handle the heat. It was unusual for me. I was new in the field, and I just wanted to broaden my horizon. I wanted to fly, but then when I decided to fulfill the dreams, that's when words became nowhere to be found.

I was afraid. I didn't know what to do. The dream had found me, and the dream that I found when I was in the pit of the darkness started to fade. The purpose. The goal—it started to vanish. The inspiration was nowhere to be found. The courage was not there anymore. I regret that I showed up, and now I want to hide from the world. I couldn’t imagine how it got torn apart. The dream that I studied and worked on from endless days and nights to sleepless nights became unsure. How did it all start? How did it end? I don't know. The truth is, I don't know. Perhaps if I had just stayed in my lane and never dreamt of getting something big, I might still have it. I could have made a lot of pieces. I could have a lot to show to the people who believed in me. I could be the writer. I could be the poet. I could be the lyricist. I could be the one that I wanted.

It was suffocating. It's getting harder to write. I couldn't finish what I started. I always had to edit after editing. It was always on the loop, and it had no ending. Insecurities and anxieties started to creep to my door in the middle of the night, and when I started to face them, they went away. It was getting stressful and out of my control. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to scream. When the sun started to rise and ideas started to visit, I promised to work on it, but just when I opened my notes and everything was set and ready, the words got idle. I was left out. I was left with the pages blank. It was empty. I didn't know what to do, so I left the pages, left my words hanging, and hid away from the field of words where the poet meets his best friend.

I love writing every now and then. It was like my comfort. It was my diary. It was my bread and butter. It was my shield when the bullets got triggered and pulled around me. So, when I got the opportunity to learn from it, I wasted no time and dived into it. I have studied it. I have analyzed every part of it. I have understood it, and eventually, along the way, I have loved it. I started to feel that there was a light in me. Though it was a bumpy ride with never-ending expectations, I still have the fire to bleed words. That's the effect that writing had on me. It made me dream big. It made me want to achieve greater things I know I crave and deserve. I deserve life, and I also knew that it wasn't just a coincidence that I was gifted with it. I may have the capability and ability to get through it, but the structure of how I made it far was my effort every day to learn and get better. I made it this far because I made it happen. I was the one who crafted my life. I was the mastermind. It was always the thought of deserving something that got through and made me endure all the blades that life showed me and stabbed me.

Did I regret that I showed and labeled myself as a writer to everyone? Yes. Perhaps if I had stayed quiet and worked on myself in silence, there could have been a lot of stories that would unfold on my website. Now, there are none. Along the way, that always lingered in me—if and only if I had stayed where I was. Months passed, and I could not get over it. I tried to get away from writing, but it made no sense. It still had an effect on me. Time has passed, and I decided to start crawling back to my once-called home.

This time, I have learned my lesson. I will never put myself on a pedestal. I will never put myself in a dire situation. It is still getting harder each day to create a piece. I still couldn't try to finish it. It was a struggle for me to endure. Sometimes, I just stare and redo it again because the words were not right, and the plot was not good enough. There are too many repetitive words. Edit. Publish. Edit. Publish. Edit. Edit. Edit. I hate it. I couldn't get into the other chapter because I always think that it still has a lot of work to do. It still has loopholes. The words did not fit into the scene; redo the words. These scenes had a lot of unnecessary words; I removed some of the parts that I thought were unnecessary. The number of words was too long; cut the number of words. I couldn't get it done. I was annoyed and frustrated. What happened to me? That's when I realized, when I sat down and gathered my thoughts all together one morning, that my fears were the ones controlling me. I was trying to create a piece that was pleasing to everybody. I was trying to create a perfect story.

I now know why I can't always write on a clean sheet of paper. I now know why I can't start writing on a white piece of paper. I now know why I did not use all of my notebooks that I bought because I was afraid that I would make a mistake. I now know why I can't just use a pen but only a pencil. With a pencil, I can just erase and start from scratch, but with a pen, there is no turning back—what you have written on the notes will be it. Either you will leave a scratch and continue it, or your flaws and mistakes are now visible for everyone to see, and for me, I don't want it.

I was creating a world where I wanted it to be perfect. I was creating a masterpiece where I wanted it from the start to fit everyone's taste—and in reality, that's not going to happen. I cannot please everybody to love and like my story. Everyone has a say in it. It was much better to start doing what I wanted to do rather than making a story that was controlled by society. I should have let my mind wander around, done the thinking, and let my pen bleed because whatever I do, there is always a side comment. It is much better than publishing nothing. It is much better than flipping the pages and finding that the words are on clean, white paper, waiting to be written. At the end of the day, I'll be fine. It will be fine, and I just need to trust myself in the process and allow myself to learn from those mistakes.