I lost my ink

Have you ever been in a situation where your passion seems to feel dull? The vigor that you felt the first time you did it was not the same as it was a few years after. The fire that burns in your heart suddenly loses its spark—unable to light the room of your dreams.

I used to read a lot. From evening until dawn, chapter by chapter. The art of reading felt as if I was conquering a new dimension. Each book has its world to show and I was given the privilege to witness them, one by one.

I loved imagining myself as the female lead character of those I have read. I always feel my cheeks burn whenever the male lead character confesses his love, how I get giddy when he gives flowers to her, or when he serenades her in front of a huge crowd—as if I was there, witnessing the event with my very eyes.

I always love how merely reading affects me as an individual. I was a shy adolescent back then, and my adventures mainly came from the books I read. With every page I unfold, a thing or two gets ticked on my bucket list. With every scene I imagine, a part of me starts to build. With every line of the characters, my values start to improve. Reading contributed a lot to who I am today.

I used to finish a book within a day, compromising my eight-hour sleep. It was my little escape. Now, I cannot even find the urge to open one. How can I open a book when holding one means betraying the younger version of me? She was crying in front of her mother—asking why is she not enough.

My love for reading comes from my passion for writing. I aspire to become a novelist. The ability to create a universe of your own and share it with the masses was ineffable. It felt like I had the freedom to control my reality by putting myself in the point of view of every character.

My passion for writing came from two things: to be comforted and to give comfort. As an only child whose parents are rarely home, writing fills a gap in me. When they were too busy or too tired to listen to me, how my day went, or what my plans were, I would just keep them to myself—waiting for the time when I could be alone in my room and write them.

With every blank sheet my ink touches, my heart burns with ardent. With every chapter I write, I hope those who might read it find solace through my words. Because when I was a reader, the authors’ words comforted me. And I can only hope mine does the same to others.

When I write, I feel like I am being heard. All my thoughts, my feelings, even my dreams—when I write, those matter. When I don’t, it feels like I am being oppressed.

I love writing as much as I love reading. Well, used to. The trail of my hot tears on that certain day still lingers. The memory of my younger self, crying in front of her mother plays like a video in a loop. A memory saved in a flash drive placed in a secret box in my mind. It was the day when I heard the news that changed my life.

“Congratulations! You will be delivering the welcome address.” Others would be happy hearing those words coming from their 10th-grade adviser, but I cannot even find the strength to lift the sides of my lips. For three years, I ranked first in our batch. But, when the pandemic came as I entered 10th grade, all my hard work was in vain. Delivering a welcome address meant being ranked second.

As my academic rank dropped, so did my passion for writing. And as I wrote the last chapter of my novel, my chapters in writing ended. My pen’s ink ran out even before I could write a period. My tears that day were enough to wash away the fire that burned in me. “Inubrak met ti kayak, apay haan nga siyak?” I did my best, why not me? My mother always has an answer every time I ask her, but on that day, all she did was watch me weep—drowning with my ocean of tears.

I began to blame myself. I blamed myself for dreaming of being an author. I blamed myself for wanting to be a novelist. I blamed myself for feeling comforted through written words. If I was not distracted by the universe that I created, I could have performed better in the universe where I am. But all I could do now was to accept that I could never turn back time.

I have long accepted that to obtain something, you must sacrifice another. In my case, I sacrificed my passion. I gave up writing as well as reading books when I transferred schools. I chose to pursue an academic strand that could help me and focused on it. My parents were finally there to listen and support my decision. But one could always dream without compromising something.

Yes, being second rank was my fault. But I now know that it was not my fault to dream. And I have forgiven myself for it. I was young and full of hope. It was never wrong to aspire. I did my best on my academic journey the same way that I did in pursuing my forgotten passion. It was enough. I was enough.

It has been three years since I gave up on my aspirations—somewhere in the deepest part of my heart I still yearn for it. I may have run out of ink, but I can always use a pencil. With the right flint and the right time, the fire that used to spark in my heart can always be ignited.

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Hazel M. Comador, 19, is a business administration student at the Mariano Marcos State University. She yearns for comfort through written words.