Every time I come across a piece of journalism that doesn’t fit the ideals I studied, learnt and believed in, I feel a sense of rage. It is inexplicable. I try to comprehend it but I can’t. The only thing I know is that I feel lost in the waves as they hit closer home, at my shore.
I resent the people who created it, just because they can and I can’t. I feel the pettiness in my bones but it is just what it is — it’s real, living, breathing.
I wish I could explain what I feel is ideal journalism — I wish I had had a better chance of exploring it. Everything I know and feel seems to be from the view of a child eyeing a delicious candy. It’s within reach but way too far. If only they could extend their arms and get what they want. If only no one was looking, that there were no consequences.
The child remembers the taste and the triumphs associated with the lip-smacking experience, but has no means to stay afloat in the face of jealousy that comes their way when they see another kid tear through the wrapper, licking what they wish was on their tongue.
The rage is real and so is the helplessness.
On some nights as I contemplate my choices and realise how miserable I wilfully make myself, even when I know better, I recall the moments where I failed. Yes, they came with lessons but it doesn’t mean they don’t count as failures, especially on nights when everything seems a mistake.
This brings me to the first sentence of this narrative. I didn’t realise how easy it were to write it in past tense. Maybe it was just something I believed in and have grown up since. Maybe a part of me is still a child that hopes to be as good as the ideals I have read up on, where emotions have no space.
Maybe a part of me has just forgotten it all. There is a reason I am not a journalist, right? I just have to find my way to accept it and move on. Or, I could forever live in this limbo. Either way, it’s not an easy choice and I am somehow running out of time to make one. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick.