writing has become hard,it doesn’t flow anymore, and I’m afraid it’ll go away. sort of like spider-man on spider-man 2. I’m afraid I have repressed it for too long, that now I can’t even improve, that Ihave become the worst. no. I am not looking for your pity nor do I want anyone to tell me it’s temporary and that eventually it’ll come back. I am here to write a journal entry on how hard it has been to write lately.Â
This has nothing to do with you, all to do with me. feel free to read my thoughts, this is why I post them online, for your amusement.Â
I believe my madness isn’t a madness after all, that I just want it to be so I can be more interesting. to myself. some call it eccentricity, I am not. Eccentric. nor Mad. I am just ordinary, not a writer, just another sheep in the flock. I’m afraid to be that.Â
This is, after all tumblr, so, when I talk about my madness I do not mean any sort of mental ilness.
As I was saying, I’m afraid I’m just another pawn, not a queen, that I can only move one direction, that I am the first one to die, that I am disposable, that I am 23 and still haven’t done the great thing I wanted to have done by now. That whenever I sit down to write, even something as small as a journal entry my mind tells me I’m incapable I’m worthless and that no one will ever be interested in my words. I’m afraid my story is not worth telling.Â
And I hate that, and everyday I tell myself it’s not like that, that I have a good story, that it always seems uninteresting right before it gets interesting, that’s why great stories are great, they aren’t great from the beginning, they need to be worked on, and done and redone and Edited, and proof-read and there is a process I haven’t figured out yet, there is a thing, that makes people focus for enough time to write a story, to not forget what they thought about while they were brushing their teeth and in the shower. But the little devil in my shoulder keeps telling me that it isn’t quite like that. that Great storytellers are born that way, and if they don’t practice they will lose their gift of telling great beautiful stories. ThatI’ve missed my opportunity. it’s gone. completely. My madness is gone.Â
It just is.Â
I can’t write anymore.
often I think I should do it only because it’s my art. But I started caring about what you think and that’s what fucked everything up, me. thinking. about. you. reading. the. words. I. write.Â