Living in Frames, by meshing the lyrical moments of life with the captured images of experience. This is a reverie, a journey, the fork in the road, and the never-ending story....

Thursday, October 8, 2015

my affliction: an open letter to those I hold close

To Those I Hold Close,

First off, let me apologize for choosing the path of an artist. Of all the routes I could have gone, I chose to devote my life to trying to come up with new ways of expressing the human experience. And of course, being a writer is probably one of the most selfish pursuits one could have. Therefore, I must compensate by being a better person, more compassionate and thoughtful in my actions, and by having a genuine interest in helping others.

There’s this need I have, to protect those I hold close from the burdens of my art—the anxiety of failure; the guilt of designating too much time and priority to writing and my preoccupations; the self-consciousness that comes with revealing myself in a raw and truthful way; the torment and madness of accepting complete fulfillment, as life no longer worth living; and all the other absurd, morbid, vile things that my psyche digs up.

Let me tell you what writing is to me and maybe someday you will understand that I had no other choice. Writing and creating is harder than heartache (I’m a masochist, there’s no denying it). It is not just about seeking out the divine, beautiful things—the aspects that can be translated into acceptable, easy-on-the-eyes manifestations. Writing is a gritty and arduous attempt to understand one’s reality, and for me, it is the most effective way to process my manic moods and emotions—writing, simply, is a filter for my head. Here she goes into talking about how cathartic writing is, you’re probably thinking. Sure, it’s cheaper than therapy, but unlike therapy, I wouldn’t suggest that more people need to be writers.

What I am trying to say is: a good story can transcend time, can move people, and can live on to inspire. I haven’t written that story yet, but be patient with me, I plan on living long enough to write something worthwhile.

I don’t expect others to share my same feelings about adjusting or coping, about letting go, or nurturing the things I believe in. In turn, I try to be respectful of what others hold true, to try and not judge, assume, or be resentful. This is my mantra: every day I wake, is another opportunity to be a better person—which encompasses many areas of my life, but most importantly, how I regard and interact with others. Jorge Luis Borges had a great explanation for the roles we play in each other's lives: "I am not sure that I exist, actually. I am all the writers that I have read, all the people I have met, all the women I have loved, all the cities I have visited." There is something to be said about our relationships. Could I be an artist without ever knowing love, pain, ecstasy, tension, or conflict? I highly doubt it.

It is my only hope that my affliction, in time, will lead to a keener awareness of all things. Perhaps, an unattainable goal, but just the same, writing has been my lifeline when I have had nowhere else to turn. I know nothing else, and yet writing is the key to my growth and happiness.

So, forgive this mess I’ve dragged along— this obsession, this consuming hunger for life and knowledge. I know I’ve made mistakes, given up too easily at times, and sometimes left altogether to clear my head. What I can’t change about myself, is what makes me who I am: Writer, woman, human, in no particular order.

So, you are saints for putting up with me, I couldn’t do this without your support. And I have a feeling, when the times comes, my first dedication page is going to have to be really, really long.

Respectfully yours,


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