But in the middle of my college years, I was swept by flattery when I was offered my first job as an assistant director for a TV show. I hadn't even completed my course yet! TV work seem to come naturally for me, and jobs after jobs rolled in. It helped that while honing my directing skills, I could still write, albeit fleeting words for other people to speak, when I did scripts. It was then when I resigned myself into believing that a writer can't make a living.

A couple of years later, I never thought my brother's first published article in The Star would make me green in envy.

The repressed desire sparked again. It didn't help that occassionally people tell me they love the way I write. I'd scoff at my unrefined style. Or recall my ex's words that I didn't have a wide enough vocabulary. When it was my blog writings that get complimented, again I'd have an excuse to put myself down. What's in here isn't good enough.

Yet amidst the every day callings of work, I would find time to recluse myself. My blog was a therapy space. A cheap shot, I'd call it, at writing. No offense to other bloggers, but I also hated being clumped up with those who claim themselves closet writers. I don't want to be one of them.

At work, I begun to loathe moments I was surrounded by people, even if my work required it. I'd recoil inside myself and be an observer, or wish I was never there. And yet at the same time, I felt I needed to be surrounded by people. I don't want to be with people. But I needed them, to be painted on to my canvas... written onto paper. What was I saying? I've work to do, and again I forced myself into reality.

So, every time there was a fire, I would put it out. Until recently when he began to fan them.

"The artist in you needs to come out."

What artist?! You're kidding me.

"An artist is never satisfied with his own work."

Stop feeding me with all these ideas!!

He refused to be put out. And he still keeps at it. Relating to me all the things he's been through and knows. It woke me up. There was never anyone here who could tell me these things. Only because we were all repressed drones. No parent would want their child to be a suffering artist. Even if my parents didn't care, I didn't want to be one. But I was suffering, from repression.

And so I fell in love with him.

You don't know what it's like to be set free from it until you learn to fly. I don't have the discipline for what I want to do, but I want to try. No, I want to do. And I am. All those ideas that have sat incubated in my head will come out in words. And they have already begun.