Writing used to be something I looked forward to doing. That is no longer true.
Truthfully, I’m not exactly sure why. I used to love writing. It used to be a passion, something that I thought I rather excelled at. Now, it seems as if my appreciation feels more like a burden. Something I have to do.
This is not at fault of this blog, rather than my sudden lack of motivation as well as creativity. I have no drive to write. No thoughts. No original ideas. My writing now feels staged, as if I’m compiling a bunch of words hoping I can create art. This art, I generously refer to as, has no emotion lately. The blogs I’m vaguely attempting to write seem ablaze at first, but now feel like another failed project. What once was a source of my pride and joy feels like a job. Therefore, I’m quitting such job. It gathers virtual cobwebs and wreaths of flowers as I metaphorically mourn the death of my liveliness.
I’m engulfed in the guilt of my own failure, academically as well as personally. My fingers lie lax on the keyboard, hoping for inspiration to dance upon the letters. Rather, they rest with nothing lifting them.
This is not at fault of this blog, rather than my sudden lack of motivation as well as creativity. I have no drive to write. No thoughts. No original ideas. My writing now feels staged, as if I’m compiling a bunch of words hoping I can create art. This art, I generously refer to as, has no emotion lately. The blogs I’m vaguely attempting to write seem ablaze at first, but now feel like another failed project. What once was a source of my pride and joy feels like a job. Therefore, I’m quitting such job. It gathers virtual cobwebs and wreaths of flowers as I metaphorically mourn the death of my liveliness.
I’m engulfed in the guilt of my own failure, academically as well as personally. My fingers lie lax on the keyboard, hoping for inspiration to dance upon the letters. Rather, they rest with nothing lifting them.
The death of my words has been a slow one I’ve not fully come to accept, until this moment. I’ve even bought a leather journal as a feeble attempt to let my words wander, with no direct purpose. To let them find themselves again. But they only scribble, ending in pressure from the pen to the paper, in what turns out to be a scream- imprinted in the thin pages.
It's frustrating as well as disappointing. That something that has so affected my life can be shut down so easily. But all things change, and this is no exception.
And so here it is. The goodbye I've been procrastinating writing. I won’t fret though, because these words represent me. Doing the best that I can, floating in an abyss of possibility, amounting to nothing.
Thank you so much to all of you who have been with me through this journey of self discovery, and to those who have supported me and pushed me. Thank you to my english teacher Mrs. Gull, who helped inspire me to start this blog, and continues to inspire me.
I hope to write something for you soon.
It's frustrating as well as disappointing. That something that has so affected my life can be shut down so easily. But all things change, and this is no exception.
And so here it is. The goodbye I've been procrastinating writing. I won’t fret though, because these words represent me. Doing the best that I can, floating in an abyss of possibility, amounting to nothing.
Thank you so much to all of you who have been with me through this journey of self discovery, and to those who have supported me and pushed me. Thank you to my english teacher Mrs. Gull, who helped inspire me to start this blog, and continues to inspire me.
I hope to write something for you soon.
Well at least you know you are a good writer!
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