March 18, 2018
I’ve been quite absent, or so it feels to me. Writing hasn’t been pumping through my veins. For some reason, reading has been my focus.
They say to push through and write even in the midst of being barren. At a loss. Silent.
And so I tried. However, nothing seemed enough. I could not get a single, solid idea. Everything lead down a bottomless well with all the writers I don’t dream to be like.
Maybe it’s from being so busy, or maybe I just need a moment to reflect and find who I’m truly writing for.
At first, it was myself. The ink of my pen released from it an oxygen so vital to my very existence. It lifted me up from survival, and I was finally living.
Then, it was for others. I still adore this one. Helping people with my words. I explain things in a different light, or maybe even just show them how wonderful they truly are with sugary sentences that coat any sourness in their self-image.
Next, I wrote for God. I spread His word. His love. Him. It made me feel rejuvenated and important. I felt as though I was doing right amidst all the wrongs. Because I’m not perfect.
However, none of this feels right. Sometimes, yes, but no one audience seems to suffice. Simplicity cannot quench my thirst for complexity.
So then, what do I do? What do I write? Who do I write to?
Do you see my impossibility?
This then that, that then this. A true hunt in finding myself. I know who I am very well indeed- a writer. This is me, and I revel in it.
But then comes the trying task of figuring out my writer. It’s consuming. Because this is all I see for myself, but then what exactly am I looking at?
Chicken scratch fills three notebooks cover to cover. All of it feels extraordinary, but then again all of it feels so different. Each page a new adventure with an entirely different meaning than the last.
Is that what I want for this blog?
Or would it only further increase my frustration?
An organized life amongst a chaotic mind- excuse me as I wish upon a star.
Life can be messy. Thank God I have my faith and my pencil.