Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Again I write from many years in the future to tell myself the exact same things I was telling myself in the past. I say to write more, to feel more, to express more and yet the frequency with which I find myself actually doing these things is rather minuscule. I live now with two writers who write things I do not really read and I remember my life's goal of writing and caring only about the written word and one's ability to capture difficult and complex things with a subtlety of language and I balk at how blatantly I have disregarded all the things I used to bet my life on. The memories of how beautiful it was to express things, to create people who I loved and who I could count on to be exactly who I expected them to be, were still so fresh in my mind despite so many years of disregard and disenchantment.

I live the life I always used to be so afraid of- a life lived running from writing, running from the knowledge of what writing brings. I've inspired those around me to write, to think, to be more and yet I continue to be less and less. There was once a time when I lived and breathed to write. I woke to words and they spilled forth from my fingers in hurried lines- the pen scraping and scratching for hours. There was once a time when I thought in words, when I walked up and down the street mumbling character traits and perfectly alliterative sentences. Now I fill my head with the words of others to drown out the deep silence that has overtaken me somehow.