It’s been days since I have wanted to write, which is strange for me. Ordinarily there is excitement in my fingertips at the thought of putting words into sentences then forming a paragraph, a story. I have written something every day for most of my life, whether it be a poem, words for my book, a letter to myself, or a simple sentence painting a picture I perceive in my head.
For the last few days, I’ve avoided the written word; I’m frightful of what may come flooding out of my brain. Or if it is even worth the time I spend tapping at the keyboard. It’s the nature of the artistic beast to wallow in self-doubt, but it isn’t why I’ve been avoiding penning my thoughts.
My lack of desire to write comes from a dark place, one of which I am not sure I need or want to put on paper. However, here I am, writing. It seems like an oxymoron doesn’t it? Not if you hold a special place in your heart for words. Words, for me, compare to the beauty of the earth. I need them to survive, to thrive, just as a flower needs water, words help me grow. And thus, why I write. To develop, to reach a position in which I may better understand my thoughts, and in turn, hopefully, I will evolve into a better person. Therefore, when my concepts are dark, I tend to write from exact such place. My entire soul slips into the thickness in which my melancholy disposition encircles my heart. Besides, it is a pitch-stained sadness; one I worry I will have difficulties learning how to resolve if I find myself delving too deep into my psyche.
I’m sad and wounded now. There is no need for me to explain why, or where it may have come from, but I do worry my words will be tarnished by the inclination of my heart. Accordingly I have avoided my favourite place to visit, the part of my mind that aches to set words on paper.
Usually, I find myself composing whatever I want, when I want, and (yep you guessed it), however, I want. I don’t write anything I haven’t felt from my heart. I wouldn’t know how to. Writing is euphoric for me; I have at times been punch-drunk in love with words. Yes, even the words I write. Not because I believe my words are well written beautiful and poetic, but because I put my entire essence into every word I write. I become lost in them. And at times, I will endure The Writing Hangover because placing my bleeding heart on the page isn’t for views or recognition; essentially it is for myself, not the reader. Another oxymoron? No. Of course, I want to be read, I don’t know a writer that doesn’t want the readership, but that certainly doesn’t mean it is the only reason I write.
Take this piece, for example, a journal entry of sorts, not something typically shared, or in a genre in which will do much of anything for anyone. These are just six-hundred of my words, meant to pull my wounded spirit from a slump. If I am lucky, maybe it will resonate with someone, or remove a feeling of isolation, but truthfully almost every word I write is for me. The bonus is when someone feels my words deeply, and it encourages them in a way they may have needed.
Maybe tomorrow I will write something funny, perhaps in a week profound words will glide from my fingers to the keyboard, who knows. Regardless, I will most certainly be writing for me. Until then, these are the words I could muster, albeit, the magnetism towards writing is powerful enough to set me here, writing this.