Writing
I used to enjoy sitting down to write. Staring at a stark, white page and filling it with my thoughts, ideas, or memories. I used to enjoy painting a picture with my words, reliving experiences, and imagining myself in places or circumstances I’ve never lived.
It’s become increasingly harder to sit alone in silence, with a web of thoughts to untangle and unleash on the world. Then, I look back at archives of my old writing. The tantalizing world I weaved with imagery and vibrance feels lost in the haziness of my mind, resting at the back of my tongue, unable to be articulated from my fingertips and onto the screen.
I haven’t wanted to write, to compare my skill to what it once was. To see another acquaintance publish a book when my manuscript sits mockingly on the shelf, teasing me and punishing me for not having the words to express its ending, its beginning; to pull the pieces of the puzzle together and create sense of the madness.
I used to enjoy it. I couldn’t stay away. The need to pour the thoughts from my head onto a page, to make real my inner experience. I used to enjoy it. Now it is a source of pain. A broken dream from the most vulnerable and childlike part of me. The promise of fruition dimmed in the eyes of my parents as my age climbs. The most important skill of my life becoming rusty and useless as I scroll on apps, swiping, finding love to distract my mind from the important task at hand. Losing myself in someone else, taking away the terror of facing the story resting behind my eyes.
I used to enjoy it.
