I had an entry in my diary way back in 2010 complaining that I couldn’t hear myself in my head anymore.
I was yakking about how, before, I could dream up stories at the drop of a hat; but just when I was entering that phase in my life that I used to fantasize about — parentless, apartment-renting, walking-distance from National Bookstore, having sex-on-demand (of course that’s an exaggeration!) — I found myself suddenly voiceless.
I am now just re-discovering the voice in my head. Nope, I’m not schizophrenic, my physician-housemate has assured me.
The problem now is my day-job. It usually gets in the way. It is not an ideal occupation for a human being pretending/wishing/practicing to be a writer. The best thing about my day job, though, is it pays the bills.
And if only for that, I should be grateful.