I have suddenly, but willingly, taken a break from Literature.

It was so strange, to be taking a break from one's passion, but I have suddenly taken a dislike towards touching the subject. I haven't written anything in weeks.

When it began, I was the girl who loved the text. Joy Luck Club was so close to my heart, a true passionate story about women. And all around me, were people who shot off their mouths that they "hated JLC". I could still tell you what is so good about JLC today. How the predominantly mother-daughter stories had touched the heart of this motherless child not by absence, but by the purely human aspects of JLC portrayed about females in society, both their role as part of society, and their tryst with their displaced selves.

But as much as I can dig up these compliments, and words of passion, they have all become regurgitated pieces of lifelessness. I no longer feel passion to read it, it has been over visited, too analysed, too understood, that the very thought of having to read this book again tonight makes me sick to the stomach. It has become an object of stress, of commitment, and of responsibility. It has become associated with something I hate - position, rank, excellence, elitism. Somehow, being good at something, and being recognised as such is not appealing anymore. Because as much as I want to excel in what I like, people expect more. They get impatient, they make assumptions about you. Then, slowly, they critisize. And what was once mine becomes theirs, given to me as an obligation.

And that discounts the passion from the heart of life. Well, mine.


Of course, I continue to take refuge in this blog - it is not to be graded, but merely to be understood. To know how something wonderful can become something hideous, and form that ever despised love-hate relationship in something that was once first in my life.

First.