Finding My P.I.G

During the beginning of the past semester, I struggled with many things. Chief among them was purpose. I was so lost in my own head's mazes, that I forgot why I did anything to begin with. And in doing so, I escaped to my only way of understanding myself. I wrote.

It started with a brainstorm. On one line, I wrote my subject. Then I dragged an arrow beneath it, and started developing the idea. And then, "Oh god. I don't know what I'm doing". So, the brainstorm that started with the intention of writing something only ended up reflecting and magnifying how lost I am. Instead of points to write about, I was riddled with questions directed at myself. If only I could answer them.

If you're interested in seeing what the questions were like, I think I'll just post a picture of the brainstorm whenever I find it. For those not interested, picture existential crisis. Yup. I had lost faith in my ability to write, and in turn, began to question the purpose of anything and everything I had done up to that moment.   I've only lived 20 years so far. In them, I haven't felt lost that many times. If I had a pound for every time I was this confused, I'd probably have about 3 pounds. Which isn't much, but it's exhausting having to go through them each time.

So where does this leave me? Did I do some self reflecting to find the answer? Maybe look for answers in people who know me well? No. I just battled with what remained of the semester and tried to restore the spark that I had. Which, in case you're curious, wasn't working out that well when I was refusing to acknowledge the baggage I carried. 

Have you ever been in an exam and you forgot how to solve a question? It happened to me sometimes whenever I was too stressed. I would handle that by skipping the question entirely and moving on to the next ones. It would take no more than two questions before the I remember what I was missing. My brain was looking through the archives of my memory for the answer I was looking for, it just needed some time.   

At some point, I decided to clear all my emails and accounts from every single thing I wrote. I wanted to preserve them in a space where I can actually organise them properly. While I was doing that, I had the displeasure of visiting my old Facebook posts. They're old, dated and above all else very cringy. The first one, I think, was about fathers. Keep this in mind, it'll be relevant later.

So. The semester keeps going. I write every now and then. The purpose and sense of confusion are persistent, but I'm writing. My brain was not asleep though. 

Slowly but shortly, the answer started forming in the background. It started when I was watching one of my favourite video essays of all time: "Why Do We Play Games We Hate". I watched this video a couple times, so I decided to try something new and go through the comments. And I found this:

 

"The moment you've consumed enough of the artform, you begin to get a feeling there's something that's missing (but doesn't exist yet). The moment you transition from a consumer to a producer."

What a genius! This was a core puzzle piece in retracing my history with writing. Which I will now present to you.

I was always a bookworm. I loved reading anything and everything at my disposal. It started with Disney comics. Then there was a phase where I read National Geographic magazines that belonged to my uncle. We also had a bookshelf, where my parents kept all sorts of books. I picked the small little stories, naturally.

Not too long after I learned how to write in school, I started utilising it. On my own (I think), I made little story books. The only one I remember being called "Where's the King". Which is a story about Fish (Yes there was always Fish in my life) looking for their king. The story was about 4 panels. Just some confused fish asking where the king is. And then the king shows up.

Writing wasn't just for stories, though, it was also a way of communicating with people I was afraid of confronting. I'm sure we've all done it at some point in our lives. Breaking something or misbehaving then writing an apology letter to your parents. In my case, I don't remember what I did. But I remember it being night, right before bed time. My little goofball brain decides "Yeah, I'm not sorry. You don't love me, but I love you regardless, Mom" is a good thing to write in an apology letter. GOD, WHAT A JOKE!

Then after reading "Diary of a Wimpy Kid", I decided to start journaling. My journals were .. a mess. The numbering of each journal was sometimes off. Sometimes I forgot to write dates and I almost only exclusively wrote when I was upset. When I was upset with my parents, I wrote a "totally unbiased" recollection of what happened and how upset I was. When I was upset with my grandparents, I wrote a short essay on the ridiculousness of expectations, wishing they would buy a robot instead. When I was upset at puberty, I wrote to myself, shouting at how annoying it was that I now liked girls just a little more than when I was a kid. 

Writing really took a hitch for me with my first Facebook post. It was about fatherhood. I wanted to say "Baba, I love you" but I was scared of my father. Not because of anything he did, I just never fully understood him. Mom was easier to read and more vocal than my dad. 

Dad read it. He liked it. This pushed me to then write about more things. All while adopting this funny dialogue style. A style that still remains in some of the things I write. I wrote exactly the same way I spoke. I was myself, I was cringe and I was happy.  

There never was truly an audience to begin with. Writing to me was a form of expressing and giving back love. Love to people at first, then love to fiction later. Which translated to this cringy mess of a story I have on Wattpad "Looking Back is Blinding".

It's funny. I try to keep track of everything I say when I write because I am worried that whatever I say might encourage someone towards something bad, or discourage them from doing good. I always try to find a laughing point or a bright angle to look at because I want to stay positive. Just as I had wrote once, I trapped myself in a hermit cage. Locking myself away from the only tool I had to properly express and understand myself. 

Until now. I finally found my PIG (Purpose, Intention and Goal)

My purpose is somewhat clear now, even if it changes with time. Whatever I write, I truly want to benefit whoever is reading it, if it was intended for that. I want to reflect my culture, values and beliefs. Because those are important to me. 

There is no end goal. I want to write for the people and things I love. I want to give back the lessons I have learned and make them simpler. I want to draw fictional worlds from the magic of my childhood.

I want to do all that, while not forgetting the core of my religion and faith. I will slip sometimes (Like when I made a character swear for no reason in my story) but I will stand to correct my mistakes and inform whoever consumes what I produce to watch out. 

I will probably still mind what I write. I'll still worry about the truth in my feelings and words. It is an effort I simply must give. Even if I have no influence at all, being truthful is all that matters.

As for expressing myself.. Here I am :)

Cheers