My love for writing (doodling) journals began when I started a pathetic collection of glitter gel pens and formed an unhealthy obsession with Tweety bird stationary at the budding age of eight, which I bought with my lunch money.
I continued to write in middle school. This time, my favourite style was short, handwritten notes to my girlfriends and boy-crushes on torn pieces of paper during class. Still with gel pens. I also wrote at home; mostly gossip on MSN to said girlfriends.
In high school, amidst all that teenage angst, I kept diaries to release some adolescent aggression. It was a result of still being treated like a child, despite efforts to be independent and grown up. I must admit, I was very childish.
Then somewhere along those four years, the age-old question (and every imaginable relative and family member) nagged me: What do I want to be when I grow up? So, I imagined myself as a journalist. I thought to myself: I do love the idea of traveling the world; I do like writing; I do care for current events; I do know the world is a broken place; There are so many stories to tell; I want to change the world; I am a socially aware and involved intelligent and personable individual! Anyway, I digress. But still, I convinced myself that this was something I could do.
I started my chapter in adulthood at Ryerson University's cutting edge, world-class, bedazzled, pretentiously competitive journalism program (we're truly above & beyond all the hype). This was a wonderful university where I met some of the most genuine individuals who are near and dear to my little heart. A lot like high school, just better dressed people who are way too indie for their own good. Here, I would embark on another four years of grueling essay writing, relentless article writing, and lots of reading. At some point (like, the second week of classes), the joys of writing lost its wonder for me. Writing started to feel tiresome, exhausting and dreadful. And damn, those grades. My whole life of being academically able has been a boldfaced, italicized, underlined lie.
Fast forward through all the blood, sweat, tears, unanswered questions, unopened emails, multiple identity crises, dollar bill$, three iPhones, big mistakes no adult would ever make, procrastination, terrible tippers, physical inactivity, online hyperactivity, etc., university life is finally coming to merciful end. It turns out, good company & good food really do solve the worst of anyone's problems, despite having to endure my most awkward stage of life. And a little (a whole lot) of faith.
Now, almost a graduate with the grim reality of joblessness and unpaid work in the bleak horizon, I have chosen to revitalize the love that I once had in what started it all: writing. I see it as picking up a well-loved and almost forgotten hobby to keep myself sane, hopeful, and sassy.
PS. I still doodle in journals. I still have a collection of gel pens. But my Tweety bird craze has transformed into a Twitter addiction. Though I can't lie, my hashtag game is on point. #boudit
But for realsies: This is just another 22-year-old blogging about things passive-aggressively with way too much audacity to think any of it matters. Sometimes, about things that are genuine, true and authentic, which makes this whole project just abominable. Sorry.
Please do stay awhile.
But okay, for realsies realsies:
Interested in:
truth/ human rights issues/ politics/ religion/ people/ arts/ culture/ travel/ food/ good reads/ photography/ writing/ documentaries/ too much social media
Passionate in:
faith, hope & love/ handmade and homemade things/ cooking/ tea/ humour/ learning/ being outdoors/ coffee dates (tea dates, but that doesn't sound as legitimate as coffee dates)
"The proof of love is in the works. Where love exists, it works great things. But when it ceases to act, it ceases to exist." - St. Gregory the Great
