A foreigner

This is one of those many times I write to calm down the urge to write something. I don’t simply want to write, I was urged to write. It’s strange. We aren’t usually urged to do such tedious task. We are urged to call up a friend to hang out when we are bored, we are urged to get out of the house when our mom would not stop talking, we are urged to touch and hug those we are secretly in love with but none of us should be urged to write. None, because we thought we can write, so we can do it anytime. We are urged to do things only when something tells us we cannot do it or we fear the consequences. There might be a chance that friends forgot about you and left you all alone. Walking out on your mom might tick her off. You might be rejected if you try to be so obvious to someone you like.

I was urged to write because something tells me I cannot write, or I fear that I will write a bad piece, or that people just laugh at my writing. Cliche. There are many times that I tried to write and always left unsatisfied. I usually delete everything I write right after I finish it because I thought it was not good enough. It’s frustrating. I want to tell my story, in writing, because words last. Yet I was left unable. My grammar was bad, metaphores were awkward, and the piece was uninterested.

I wanted to write but I am not talented enough. I will one day die like any ordinary person with a story left untold. A story of a person who cannot write for himself, of a person has so much content but was unable to express. A story of a life full of awkwardness, a life that does not flow, a life that does not “sound right” and full of unexpected commas. Life of a foreigner.


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