on writing the wrong

i almost forgot about writing until a friend reminded me about it.

i got so caught up in reading and the daily grind that i neglected my art.
before, i said writing is my passion.
how can i call it my passion when i have moved on with my life sans it?

it's either i've not been living my life lately
or i'm not really passionate about my writing.

maybe writing is not my passion, but rather,
i write only when i feel passionate about something.

hmmm... now that had me thinking.

before, i can't imagine not writing.
now, i can only imagine i'm writing.

my hectic life has come to that point.
is it even 'life'? or mere existence?
can i even say it's hectic when it mostly is work that consumes my time?

i'm not happy that my so-called life is equated to work.
it just is not right. i have truly been an office slave w/ an imaginary leash.
even in my sleep and on my free time, work thoughts always enter my mind.
i have been so programmed by my work that it's mostly what i think of and do.

what great irony!

i'm a programmer, and yet i wasn't able to escape this quagmire.
but no matter what happens, in my most desperate times, most emotional moments,
my darkest situation, writing has always been my salvation.

i start with a heavy heart and ends up with a feeling of relief.
call it therapy.

it is only when i write that i become totally free.
this is my escape, my refuge.
unexpected occurrences trigger me to write.
interesting encounters inspire me to write.
boredom urges me to write.
desperation makes me write.

right now?

i write now,
not with raging fire, but with the soft glow of burned coal.
not with charging urgency, but with steady pace of calm.
not with wanton passion, nor with seething intensity.
i'm neither angry, nor ecstatic.

i write now, not because.
i write now and that's it.