I used to write. A lot.
I made stories. I made plays. I made anything that makes me to be acknowledged as a wordsmith.
I wrote on papers, I wrote on Words, I wrote at Blogger since I was a high schooler, I wrote at Wordpress, I wrote on Medium, I wrote at walls and notebooks and whatever.
I always try to remind myself via a statement to my wife : "I need to be more productive". But it will always end up by scrolling aimlessly at Instagram or TikTok, scrolling at endless pit of Youtube, listening to music that I never heard before, favoriting items that I know it will be gone soon if I didn't check it out by next ten minutes. I need to be more productive. But she will always said "we won't have time for that, anymore."
I want to write more. I got a shitton of things inside my head, even when I writing this shit. Bad jokes, cheesy love story, sad adventure, an unrequited love stories, a stories of a man that failed himself. A stories of a murder. Stories for kids, for my children to read when they are able to read. But somehow I know that I can't.
I want to be like Murakami, I want to be like Raditya Dika. I want to be expressing myself, my mind, my concern, my heart into writing. Because deep down, I know, I write because I want to escape my life.
My current life is wonderful, I can't grateful enough for it. I got a lovely wife and two beautiful children. I got a job that held the economic of our family, I got a place to sleep on. I got vehicle, I got stuff.
But sometimes, sometimes, things hurl wildly inside me. Like a hurricane without ending, like a snowball that kept rolling. I read and watched The Shining. I'm afraid that I will come to this room, open the word processor and kept writing "All work no play, Jack is a dull boy."
Haruki Murakami deciding himself to become a writer when attending a baseball match of his favorite team - Swallows. He knew he can write at that moment.
I'm still looking at that moment to happen in my life.
I'm still lock up the hurricane inside me, to hurl down even bigger.