I have seen moments like this. I start of with a casual sentence; the reason this post took so long to write is because… and then I drag the mouse over them, press Delete, and then start over, with the same sentence, over and over and over…

And then I’d settle on something else. Something that felt like a start. And then I’d wonder why I ever needed to be so picky.

And then, for a momentary wonderment, I’d feel envious for people who can start their sentences off effortlessly.

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The reason this post took so long to write is because it so happens to be the 200th post. I thought it was a big deal -- initially. I told myself that big plans had to be made; we simply can’t be done away with a simple offering, darling, we need a hall and decorations, Renaissance , and yes, darling, never without a band. Never! Give or take a few days later, I was settling towards merely a simple celebratory thing, starting off saying Yay! Des Dos-ciento! and then be contented.

Yesterday, I thought, to hell with it. To hell with all of it. And I guess I stuck by it.

Truth is, I reckon, probably has a lot to do with me wondering what to actually write about. I’d sit down, get some work done, feel the urge to write and draw out Microsoft Works Word, and then spend the remainder of the night writing and deleting. And I thought it’d be useless, might as well leave it be and do something else. A few minutes later the urge comes back, winking and eye-batting, and I’d sit down writing and deleting and then surrender, feeling impotent (powerless. Not… you know. Right)

Days went by. I see my writing furling up into smoke and ashes.

I’m still being hypocritical. I mean, I spend a lot of time telling people that stubbornness is the way to go; don’t give a damn what you write, just write and if people don’t like it, you make a note and smile, saying thank you. The gung-ho way is the way to go. Then, when I sit down to write, I give myself excuses.

It feels rather stupid to have a philosophy you can’t abide to yourself.

But if there’s something that I tell myself to abide, even by severe incapacitation, is to never neglecting the art of writing. I still believe that it’s an art you need to keep in touch with; neglecting it means you lose it, little by little. I already felt mine rusted, crumbling in parts. Whatever that’s ever intact. It’s not a good feeling. It feels like losing part of the bones that hold the flesh.

Lose too much, and something breaks. Sometimes, bones that break, never heal.