I think I have figured it out though.
Writing, real writing, has begun to terrify me.
When I am pouring my heart out on a page or crafting a poem I am also simultaneously burrowing deep into myself. So deep that often times I struggle to find my way out of the trenches. I enter an existential crisis where nothing becomes certain and every moment, every instant of my life is isolated and scrutinized.
I furrow into this deep funk where I feel completely separate from myself and entirely alone. And each time I crawl into that hole it has become harder to emerge from.
And so, I am finding myself immeasurably stuck. What I love to do has become something that I cannot afford to do. My writing is no longer a way for me to process my feelings in order to overcome them, but rather a way for me to eternally and invasively probe every thought until it is in its very nature a feeble question.
So what now?
I think for now I must wait.
I must wait until I have someone who I know will be able to pull me out of that place. I must wait until I am no longer scared to pick up my pen.
I am still considering all of the things I used to be able to write about, I am just not expressing them in the same way.
I think for now I need to explore with other people, people who are not just on the other side of the internet. I think I need the human contact and compassion and while I know most of my readers are people who I intimately and personally know, the majority of you are not physically here and I need that right now. I love you all, even those of you I do not personally know who have just stumbled upon this blog somewhere along the way, but I think that is all I can do for now.
You do you. The pen will still be there when you are ready to pick it up. The pen will never leave you.
ReplyDelete"Literary experience heals the wound, without undermining the privilege, of individuality. There are mass emotions which heal the wound; but they destroy the privilege. In them our separate selves are pooled and we sink back into sub-individuality. But in reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do."
-Jack