I don’t write anymore. I don’t know why--I could blame busyness, my career, my radical shift to adult competency--but I’ve always been occupied, and I handle it better now than ever before. It isn’t because I’ve stopped reading or stopped thinking about how much I love words. I think about words more than ever, now that I’m trying to teach other people how to use them. It’s frustrating to love words so much and not be able to make others understand the gravity of what they mean, what they can mean. I try every day to make kids understand that commanding a language enables you to have a voice, and otherwise, no one will hear it. I don’t find new music anymore. It was something that consumed a good chunk of my free time for so many years. I still love music. I still go to shows and listen to new music. But it doesn’t come from my own independent endeavors. I don’t have the room for it anymore because my life is about twelve-to-thirteen-year-olds now. This change came more easily than I could have imagined, and I feel lost in my concern for other people now. Like I’m the last thing that matters to me now. When I look through these posts, I see a child wrapped up in herself. I see a young woman who can’t express herself properly in spite of knowing many words, trying to talk into a void that won’t talk back. I see immaturity obscuring bigger issues by focusing on the self and sex and substance. And now, I feel very distant from all of that. I wish that I could say that I feel like I’ve accomplished something. But I feel like I’m disappearing.
