Clutter is my kryptonite. I can be paralyzed by it. Unfortunately for me, I am not a perfectionist. So instead of super straightened out place, I have an organized chaos. Nothing is in the center and everything else is tucked away. To the untrained eyes, it might look neat. But as a word of warning, DO NOT open the door, and we shall live in peace. For awhile at least, until one of us forget about the rule and lets the clutter rules.
For some unknown reason, today I peeped behind one of the doors. The virtual door. The door that keeps the clutter aside on this blog. The door called Drafts folder. It was a point of no return.
Apparently I had a lot of unpublished posts. Like real life, most of the clutters in my draft folder were junks. They were a combination of posts that are somewhat whiny like complaining about how hard life is, and somewhat fluffy like the crush I had on fictional characters—Jordan Catalano and Jesse St. James. I’m grinning just by writing those names. What am I? A sixteen-year-old? Goodness, no! So, I just had to delete those drafts. While not all of the unpublished posts are junk, all of them were definitely half-baked. Here is a peek at my virtual clutter.
One thing I struggled a lot as a child was that no one thought highly of me. I was the oldest from four. But, I didn't possess the qualities other adults would associate with a typical first born. My brother was the smart one, my sister was the well-behaved one, my youngest sister was the funny one. I was... the wild-card.
My parents never brag about me. Well, there was nothing to brag about—I was a child. But being a child didn’t stop other parents to brag about their kids. Nonetheless, instead of being sad, I convinced myself that I was secretly awesome, and no one else could see it. Deluded, I know.
I have all kind of ideas flowing all day. I have a lot of stories to tell. I want to write it all. But as soon as I click "New Post," and the text editor is in front of me—whoops—suddenly everything is gone. Where? I don't know. I call this a blog's block—an identical twin to a writer's block.
Maybe it is not blog's block. Maybe the ideas were not fully formed, maybe the stories were too fragmented, maybe I was just full of myself (syok sendiri in Malay).
Including my current apartment, I've had nine different mailing addresses as an adult.
I could put this post aside as a draft too. But what do I have to lose? Let me click “Publish” this time.