Between Hunger and Words

Have you ever wondered how writers come up with stories as if they have an ocean of thoughts? Or perhaps a universe of words beyond comprehension? Unending scenes and plots so captivating you just can't stop reading? If you're an aspiring writer, I bet you have.

As for me—I've been sitting here at my desk, staring at my laptop with a disheveled look. For months, I've been thinking about writing a story. I have this idea in mind, believing I can craft a binge-worthy plot, just like every writer out there hopes to. I earned good grades in literature back in university. I've won every writing contest I signed up for since my junior years. My professors used to say that if some people have a green thumb, I must have golden hands and a mind to match.

So, this should be easy for me.

But no! It's not!

If you dared to peek into my draft folders, you'd find hundreds of abandoned "babies"—stories I stopped writing because the plot bored me, characters overlapped, or development felt nonexistent. Some were discarded simply because I ran out of ideas. Most, though, are nothing more than scribbled intros—mere whispers of a beginning. I tried salvaging what I could, hoping to recycle them into something decent, but to no avail.

Despite it all, quitting never crossed my mind. I dream of becoming a known writer someday. Not necessarily great, but at least good—good enough to be serialized, to have readers waiting for my next update. That's my goal. And I hope the deities bless me with the clarity of thought and cure my chronic procrastination.

"Aish!"

Frustrated, I slammed my mouse, harshly shut my laptop, and stood up.

I'm hungry. And I smell funny.

But since I have no energy to even boil water for instant noodles, I settle for drinking tap water before dropping myself onto the sofa. I'll bathe later. For now, let's just sleep and drown my worries in dreams.

Living alone gives you a lot of freedom. No one watches over you, no one judges you for your habits. No nagging, no errands, no expectations. Yet, at times like this, I miss home. I miss my mom's cooking, her scent, and—ironically—her violence. If I were home, I would have already been kicked and spanked for not cleaning my room, the living room… well, basically the entire house. And for neglecting myself—my own body.

"Mom... I'm hungry," I whisper, my voice cracking as I close my eyes.

If you've ever felt so exhausted and hungry that your body refuses to move, where even lifting a spoon feels like an impossible task, and your eyes shut against your will despite your mind's protests—cheers to that! That's exactly what I'm experiencing right now. It's a battle between my mind and my body, a relentless push-and-pull game.

Oh, and to make matters worse, I have a peptic ulcer. I shouldn't be skipping meals, ever. But for the past few days, frustration has made me reckless. I've been neglecting my own health. If you have the same condition, you'd know the unbearable pain when stomach acid gnaws at an empty stomach. But at this point, I've grown so numb to it that, finally, I surrender to sleep.