It’s the last day of August. And the inability to write anything resembling something inspiring continues.
I’ve got mounds of shitty little poems, some I might consider finished if I was submitting them to my eighth grade English teacher. Others just sit there, half completed, like sad, little reminders of strong, but idle thoughts that never flourished into their true potential.
I think I have to start approaching writing differently.
I realize that this is the second post in a row (spaced months apart) about not being able to write, but I keep staring at the blog and thinking about how much it monumentally sucks that I can’t write right now. And that little bit of gloom is just enough to inspire me to write about how much I miss writing.
But I feel like admitting that I miss writing in some way means I’m admitting that I miss being unhappy. Is that even possible? Can I truly miss the complete and utter devastation I relished in when I was my miserable self?
Kurt Cobain once said, “I miss the comfort in being sad,” and you know, I get it.
There IS a certain comfort in sadness. It’s something many of us learn to live with, cope with. We can understand it even when we don’t know why it really exists.
And the truth is, many of us revel in our sadness because we haven’t found any other way to live. I have, at those particular points in my life, embraced my sadness and all the behaviors that come with it because I never knew that there was possibly another way. I didn’t think that I could escape it, so I did the only other thing I knew how to do to get through my life day-by-day…DEAL.
But what happens when you decide that you no longer just want to deal? What happens when you look at yourself in the mirror and say, “Enough is enough. It’s time to get your shit together once and for all”?
Magic…that’s what friggin’ happens. The closest that many of us may ever get to an honest-to-goodness miracle is that one moment in our lives when, despite how much we’ve been dragged through the mud, we realize that we’re worth fighting for.
At the end of the day, I know I will always be a writer. It’s part of who I am. But I have to recognize that in some ways, I may never be the same kind of writer that I used to be. And perhaps that’s why it has been so hard to write as of late. How can you write anything inspiring when you’re still inspiring yourself to become a person that, up until this point, has never existed? If I don’t even know who I’m going to be quite yet, how can I even begin to put into words my soul?
The answer to that question? To be continued…