Envy is a sin. I have to keep reminding myself that. To get it out of my system, I have to say it. Again and again. Envy is a sin.
I wish i could be like the writers, the angsty, tortured writers whose mouths spit out fertile literary poop. The ones who lie awake, pondering the mysteries of life, the ones who cannot live without a pen and paper, the ones who can summarize a day in three words. I especially want to be like the ones who can put two words together and make it sound like profound blog name. Like Dustdance. Or Intelligent Ash. The best I can do is make corny jokes. Yep. Ask my tobie, or the beast. They aren't even that funny.
I wish i could write deeply, and with a sentence rip out people's hearts, and with an exclamation mark make them stop and think. The ones who chainsmoke on starbucks' smoking sections somewhere in the bowels of makati, tapping into their spanking new i-books. And yes. I want the ibooks too. With the color-shifting apples.
I wish i could be like my artist-classmates in Fine Arts too. Always busy drawing or painting or doodling, like the lines are in their head forcing their way out through their fingers, or through their throats. Always with their eyes elsewhere and their hands always busy, always in motion to record the images in their heads. Always scribbling away, capturing birds and trees and revolutions on paper.
I cannot imagine what it is like to be always painting. I cannot imagine what to paint. Or what to say. Or what to draw.
I guess I wish i was someone with something to say. Something so profound that everyone would stop and look at my drawing and be moved, or listen to my words and think. I envy those who have the gift of expression. But I wish I had something concrete, something substantial, instead of the empty mediocrity that makes me despair.