That’s what I’ve been telling myself for days.
Sorry for what?
Recently, I dropped Literature as a subject I’d do in my secondary school days. It pained my heart so so bad. But I had to.
In its place, I chose Art. Art was my first love. I just couldn’t let go of Art. And because of that, my heart wept. I cursed and stressed. Was I doing the right thing? Was I? But yet, I had to. I loved Literature with all that’s left of my poor sodden heart. I loved it. I loved it as I read a book. I loved it as I wrote. I loved it as I watched.
I loved it as I breathed.
I had to let go.
Most of you would be all “WTF?!” because you’d never do that. Who does such big things for Art? Who? No one. I decided to change that. My poor little heart wretched and I almost lost my tears in the face of my teacher as I told her I’d drop it. I didn’t. For I got the reply of “Oh. Okay.” I think she hates me now. People pursue their passions. And I?
I dropped one of my passions.
What the hell am I doing?
I don’t know. But I’m sorry, dear heart. So I wept.
I knew I would always remember the pain every time I touch a book. Remember the loss every time I read a book. Remember it, when I breathe.
I wept. I wept for the widening hole in my heart, wept that it’s being filled up again, this time by Art, but not full. Wept at the loss.
I did love Literature. And I let it go.
Why did I do it? I wanted to keep reading and everything to be something of a hobby. Not something I do critically, finding faults at texts I read. No. I did not want that. I planned that if I were to ever want to change back, I could, because the love will always be there. So I
I left a hole.
I will never stop writing. I’m just worried the quality of my work goes down. Stay updated!