Finding Arien

I don't know if 22 years is a long enough time to figure out who someone really is, but I think that I lost the me that I had been in the past 21 years and for a whole year long I've been trying to find if she is indeed still in there; there, in my heart and mind.

Because sometimes it's so easy to remember who you really are, and to lose yourself when you think you were going somewhere.

I like to consider myself a writer; at least to myself, because I know that most of my writings are for my sole consumption and they were never meant to be anything more than that anyway. I like to write about life and its problems. I like to write about love, when I happen to have something to say about it. Most of all, I like to write fiction, because that's where the life is. One day, you will be surprised that sometimes there's more truth in a fiction than there is in someone's life story.

But a writer writes, and most recently, I don't.

Not because I don't have time or I have a writer's block.

It was more like because I stopped caring. Because I stopped having things to say---things to write about.

It's like I stopped feeling feelings.

Have you ever tried to look back in time and see the stuffs you've said (or written/tweeted/posted) and think, "I did that? Really?" Mostly, at the same time I'd shamefully think, "What was I thinking??!" and then try to excuse myself that I was just a teenager, I was (probably) unstable emotionally, or it was just PMS talking. But these days, whenever I try to look back, mostly what came up to mind was this one depressing question---one that I share with you because I wish that you're not wondering the same thing I do---"Where had the girl who wrote this gone?"

Because if you're not, please know that it is such privilege to not have let go of your preferred version of yourself.