For the past few months, I considerably putting my words into writings on daily basis. Most of them are my observations to any events flying in front of my eyes, a little empathy, and laboring my left brain to do more scientific analysis. I pretty much proud of myself not to let my left brain take over everything and manage to escape tendency to speak nonsense syllables just to make me look intelligent. Everything has to be precise, concise, and clear.
However, I felt like I had been distancing from myself. I let a couple of dreadful events draw me into a prolong state of grief and I tried to protect myself by looking away from my feelings. It was pretty effective, I didn’t cry, I didn’t play drama-queenesque performance. Then it began to sunk myself. I was constantly restless, clueless, tempted to find pleasure to fulfill the hole in myself. I am me. I am sensitive, I am emotional. Deal with it. It’s my forte and also my weakness. Acknowledging it doesn’t mean that I encourage myself to be an emotional trainwreck but to be me as a whole. It’s about finding peace in my soul.
I don’t even know how to utter my emotion in precise way. My emotion is pretty much mixed and unidentified by vocabularies in any language I know. My sensitive side speaks to me in code, dangling puzzling images and words. They are waiting me to set them free and what better way to express this other than poetry? After entangling everything in poetry, soon I am able to grasp what I feel and also what I’m thinking. Poetry leaves space for people to be creative, maintain some kind of secrecy (especially for the writer), and able to be interpreted in lots of possible way. Because of that, people can personalize the poetry they read to whatever happens in their lives and poetry tends to stand test of time. Therefore I’ve decided to resurrect my ‘poetry-class’ blog in a new scent: canting candrakirana.
I am once again cramming to be a member of poet society.