There is a saying that goes ‘you never know what you had until you lost it’ and, as always, this realisation strikes me in an unholy hour. I love the night; it is quiet and gives me enough peace to actually think, but at the same time, it also causes me to think a little too much every once in a while. Just how long has it been since I have last published a work that I can be pleased, no, not even proud, of?

I am emotionally a cold fish and I am generally fine with it. This means that I have little love to spare. Oh do not get me wrong, I do love my family, but it is not the encompassing kind of love that warms you up inside. Rather, it is more like ‘I’ve gotten so used to you that it will hurt if you are not around anymore’ and it upsets me at times. I feel a little cheated; where is the great romance, the love so great that you would not think twice to sacrifice your life for, am I not worth any of it? Thus I treasure the little love that I feel. My love for books started over two decades ago, I was already going for them when I could barely walk, and unlike other children, I was contented to spend hours poring over the pictures and words in those simple children books.

Can I call it puppy love? Childish or not, it was my first love.

Books entertained me, them with the pretty pictures and silent words, and it was as simple as that. Then as I grew a little older, books, or rather words, became my escape. The fantasy world that words could create for me was my way of detaching myself from all the negativity that I felt all the time. In books, I could be involved and yet uninvolved at the same time, the perfect situation for me. Before I knew it I was in love, totally taken with the idea that my world could be anything that I want, that I choose.

This love naturally developed over time. From a simple appreciation of words to a desire to create my own fantasy, and it was only natural that I went into journalism from there, since I’ll be paid doing something that I love to do. However, it didn’t turn out the way I thought it would be. Stringing together pretty words with the intention to mislead was never how I imagined journalism to be at all. It was hardly a surprise when I started hating the job and wondering if journalism was not my cup of tea after all.

Playing the blame game is never hard, after all, since it is human nature to point fingers when things go wrong. However, it doesn’t change the fact that I wanted out nor the fact that hating the job made me transfer some of the hatred to writing. Hating the job was easy, easier than taking candy from a baby and I thought I was entirely justified in it but what remains, but after the initial headiness crashed and burnt, there was one question that remained, and let me quote the Black-eyed Peas: Where is the love?

To sum it all up, I gave up and those who shared my passion did not, and this is my confession of shame. I like things the easy way out and moving on was just too easy to do so when you have a million reasons and excuses. However, mistakes will never let themselves be buried so easily, right?

On one of my very random blog-surfing spree, I happened to read posts written by someone once-beloved in the strictly platonic sense, and all I could feel was shame at how easily I had let go of something that I thought I loved. This was not how love was supposed to be. The difference between love and like should be the intensity of the feelings and a certain amount of loyalty towards holding onto it. Yet my actions have shown that love and like are all but mere words to me – inconsequential – because who gives a damn about what goes on within my head?

I’m a world-class actress when it comes to pretending that everything’s alright. There could be figurative rats gnawing at my guts, killing me slowly and painfully like a slow-acting poison, and I can still smile and pretend that everything’s all dandy. Not even mummy dearest will know.

I pretended that everything was fine even when I clearly resented those people for tainting something that I loved with their every sneer and brush-off. Sure, the practical part of me knew that for a business to run, the focus had to be on where the money was, but when your job was brushed off as unimportant, especially when you’re slogging your guts out, and not worth the time, it killed me little by little and taking my love for words along with it.

I put up with it for too long and now I can’t write anymore. The words don’t flow the same way as they did before. Maybe it’s my punishment for not staying true, maybe it’s just not meant to be, maybe it’s because I never had the knack for it anyway, but now I really wouldn’t ever know, will I?