This would be my first entry for this blog, it took me a year to start it and write again, my professor (Sir Y) was the instrument to initiate and to compel me to create this blog (one year in the making, finally), and will it be a shame? That I’m writing again because it’s a requirement?…perhaps.
I was a writer with no more article, a storyteller that got out of story, a journalist that turned back on his duty…will it be a shame?…perhaps.
A year after I got out of the pigeonhole, from the four-panel classroom, after four years of writing and fighting while serving as a student journalist, flinging words that cuts through hypocrisy of people, ( ah I miss the times—fearless and dauntless) now, I found myself lost. I don’t know how to write anymore. Is it possible?…perhaps.
My mentors would always say that it’s grimmer in the real world, so are you prepared? And a year after, with my own personal struggles, adapting to changes, facing reality, I started to feel vulnerable to dreaded reality. Am I a weak?…perhaps.
When I was still a student, I was so eager to graduate and pursue my dream, to be a writer and be a journalist. I even devoted a study about violence posed against our local journalist. Subsequently, I was exposed to the reality and issues our local journalists are facing, with this experience, literally you might lose a life or a limb, and they are so vulnerable to corruption because of their economic status, to be a real journalist in this country, you have to struggle to keep your stomach filled while maintaining a clear conscience at the same time or else you impede your purpose, it was a real struggle and I have to ask myself am I prepared to make battle with the system? If not, the system will eat you and you’ll be part of the existing system like a chronic disease of our society. Now that I’m out here, am I walking backwards?…perhaps.
I attended a media congress before where one of the speakers is Maria Ressa, she addressed, “if you want to change the world, be a journalist!”And it resonated in my mind. Until now, it haunts me, I realized you may run but you cannot hide, if you’re called to be a writer no matter what you do, you’re conscience will haunt you. So what am I waiting for? For my whole body to get numb or lose insanity?…perhaps.
But how will I write again? How will I rekindle the passion? There’s enough reason to write, enough reason to heed the call. Though, I felt that the ink of my quill has dried out, my rusted blade can’t cut through anything anymore, and my head is getting shallow.
Journalism is not a lucrative profession but it’s one of the noblest, and before you become a writer you must be prepared, and choosing the lonelier path of conviction, the less travelled path, you’re giving your life to the people. I still remember this old man I met before, with silver grayed hair and wrinkled face. He had his old rugged back pack that is filled with his newspapers, by the way he’s dressed you can say that his income only suffice for himself or not at all, but what’s fascinating about him, if you’ll look into his face, he’s always wearing a smile and radiance despite his old skin. I believe it’s because he knew that he might not have luxuries of the world but he is living a life well lived by becoming a journalist.
My comrades forgive for being late. I know I have to start again, muster up my strength and courage to face the reality and fulfill my duty. It will take time to sharpen my pen, and I will not hurry, like a ballet dancer who limbers up on stage knows she must master her craft by taking a lot of practice. I’ll borrow Abraham Lincoln’s word, “If I had eight hours to chop down a tree, I’ll spend six hours sharpening my axe.” It’s not an excuse. Am I ready?…Perhaps?
I know it’s not yet too late…this time I will. Once I’m done it’ll be a one great leap.☺
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“ I write at eighty-five for the same reasons that impelled me to write at forty-five; I was born with a passionate desire to communicate, to organize experience, to tell tales that dramatize the adventures which readers might have had. I have been that ancient man who sat by the campfire at night and regaled the hunters with imaginative recitations about their prowess. The job of an apple tree is to bear apples. The job of a storyteller is to tell stories, and I have concentrated on that obligation.”
– James Michner
The World is My Home
