It has been five months or so, since my last words are logged in here. So I ask myself, am I a blogger? Am I an author? Am I at all a writer? And I find other questions as answers. So I believe what I read, that life is a mystery, and mystery is life. I further believe that the more I want to know, the more I do not know. The more I discover, the more I conceal. The more I conceal, the more mysterious I become. And I continue to prove on the life and mystery relationship.
So I thought of this phrase, "life works in mysterious ways..."
And I wonder if it is a new phrase after all. I'm sure some may find a familiarity in it, it's like someone may have said it some time some where. Yet that is it. It's always the familiarity that strays us from feeling its meaning. Because some things, some words have been done, have been said over and over, we tend to ignore its substance. I may forget how deep its meaning can be when I hear someone says "I love you" to me over and over again. But I may treasure and remember the one time those three words are uttered to me.
So I am a human being who forgets. My selective memory at times takes over who and what I want to remember although my heart does fight over it most of these times. I do well know there's my brain to play its part, but it has its own agenda. So I must find a way to put my emotions away.
And so I write. As he who sings a singer, he who acts an actor, he who dances a dancer, so is he who writes a writer. When I write I am therefore a writer.
I came to thinking, I am therefore no one special for all of the people I know and do not know in this cyber space with their own blogs are just like me, or rather, I am like them. You may call it a blogger, but they write anyway, so they are writers, just like me.
I ask myself then, should I feel bad that I am no one special? Should I be special anyway? Do I want to be special? Why should I? Why do I? Then I have my answers - 'Is it important that I be special?' 'What do I need to prove by being special?' Of course, those are not real answers. They are questions to some other questions. I later find that what is important is for me to be happy. I don't need to be anybody, I don't have to be anything. I may be a writer, a dreamer, a loser, a winner; but I am I.