I can never run away...from writing.

I've tried ignoring.

There were moments when thoughts just came in...like ants crossing over any terrain just to get that sweet bit of food. The urge is so strong, it has to get what it wants. Achieve what it wants to achieve. Express what it wants to express.

Nah. No one will read it anyway.

You write to express, not to make money and garner followers.

But having readers make writers significant.

Yes. But that's just an add-on. You write because it's your gift, and you're called by the Most High to develop and use it for His sake.

I'm too busy.

That's a given, but if you don't set aside time for this, you're missing out.

Missing out on what?

His calling.

Although technically blogging isn't writing, our culture has come to the point of making both terms synonymous. If you're a writer, it's a given that you blog at this time. Professional writers keep blogs so that readers may occupy themselves with reading what their favorite writers are writing. Aspiring writers use blogging to develop their craft and somehow attract a small following, that will eventually lead to a publisher willing to publish their masterpieces.

Me?

I've tried blogging for money before. But I burned out. I tried blogging because it's hip before. But I burned out.

But this is what I discovered over and over.

I can never run away from writing.

There was a time when I tried pushing every writing possibility away. I stirred up a hate towards the craft. I purposely didn't allow myself to read, that I may not get the urge to write. Reading and writing has this symbiotic relationship I've been told. A teacher once told me that to improve in writing, you have to improve in your reading. So I figured, if I killed one, then it might kill the other.

But then as stubborn as my head is at that time, writing was as stubborn in giving me up. I pursued another field. I tried visual art. I tried music. I tried getting a girl to occupy my time...just so I won't get into moments when the spirit of writing whispers into my ears, "try writing again."

I never became a good visual artist. Realization hit me hard. I wasn't cut for this.

I only managed to get close to girls I wanted to be with. But they ended up with someone else. I ended up writing my frustrations and hurts away.

I got immersed in music. But it made me see the need to write my feelings and express myself.

So writing was indeed stubborn to me. It out-stubborned me.

And now I realized, it wasn't just writing at all. He who wired me this way was the One who pursued me, and kept on stirring something up in me, though waves upon waves of discouragement came.

The call is too loud to ignore.

I just have to write.