Six long months had passed before I decided to revisit my blog. Guilt tagged along as my fingers moved across the keyboard awkwardly, pausing in between to recall the address and repeatedly hovering over the backspace key. Because for a time, I'd given up my electronic journal for a twenty-ringgit-eighty-pages-hard-covered, a-so-called-proper-one.
Finally, a familiar page flashed before me, and I could still see clearly the rainbow streaks of hues against a white blackground, the stuffed animals scattered across it, and the childlike fantasies which compelled me to choose this theme for my blog. As I strolled down, reading each posts, dated from January 2010 to my 21st birthday, I was reassured. For my long forgotten friend hasn't changed a bit. He's here all along, waiting patiently for me to return to him. And that was when I saw my mistake : I didn't have to choose. I could very well manage blogging and journal-writing at the same time.
Choice is a very cruel word. It is made under cruel circumstances, between something gained and something lost - never in the middle - without an absolute certainty of the stakes at hand, and the outcome. Even a choice as simple as journal-selecting can be wrongly-judged. I should've known better that life's not a multiple choice question. Like a piece of poetry or a stage play, it has an undistinguished edge and a far more subtle voice.
