musings of mine

At the back of my wardrobe there’s a huge stack of notebooks. These books are filled with scribbling. The handwriting changes…becoming more childish as the end of the pile grows near. The notebooks are mine, so is the handwriting. I’ve been writing to myself since I was 8 years old. It was a pastime I reveled in…the one moment during my day where I could say what was on my mind, without any inhibitions, to no one in particular. Blogging is the same, I think. The only risk I am taking is publishing my thoughts on the internet where everyone can see them. Its not that I mind. I welcome all forms of criticism; especially the constructive kind.

 My style of writing has always been like this. And throughout the years I have encountered many a person who has enjoyed my writings and has helped me tweak my style, in attempt to help me become better at doing what to me is, an outlet to release those thoughts that keep buzzing in my head. For example my sentences are too long. Like the previous sentence. But as long as I punctuate them with smatterings of commas and semi colons, and not stick these long sentences everywhere I think I’m fairly safe. After all this is a blog, not my A/L literature paper!

 What pisses me off the most is when I am criticized destructively. Where the ‘criticizer’ does not want to make a positive change in your life, but a negative one. I just heard one such criticism recently. It was made to a person who means a lot to me. A person who’s opinion I value dearly. It was made, I think, in an attempt to get that special person to think that I was merely a babe in arms and that my writing style showed my true age and the fact that I will never grow up. I am, unfortunately, immune to being called immature. I was told this by my Principal a couple of years ago, when she told me that if I matured I could go to great heights. Of course I remained immature, and went to greater heights!

A day after this comment was made, I look back on it’s impact on me. True enough it did make me worry. Yet that worry was a waste. It was a waste of my time. Now I can look back and actually feel sorry for that person. I can rise above that nasty comment and think to myself, it doesn’t really matter to me. And that to me is an achievement, a sign that that I, the kid that would never grow up, has grown up…has matured. You know the weird part of this realization? I don’t even want her to know that her opinion of me doesn’t matter.