Every now and again this starts to happen. I imagine it’s similar to a painter that let brushes get a little too crusty. Maybe like the photographer who’s lenses now harbor too much dust. My metaphorical pen’s ink is all but dried up, and I’m suddenly scared that I’ve lost my writing ability.
They say it’s like riding a bicycle, and I hope to God that’s true. There are times where I literally feel as though my gift is bleeding out, and I’m struggling to grasp the lost blood as it slips through my fingers. I need to write more. And more. And more. Until I literally write so much I start to lose myself to the words. I need to write until I become my rants, my musings, and my failed attempts at poetry. I need to write until I birth every nuanced short story, every drunken poem, and every self-agrandizing novel.
I read what I wrote less than a year ago, and I smile, but there’s a certain sadness behind the grin. Even more, a fear. Maybe it’s a part of my brain that’s gone dormant. I guess it would be the same for a runner that spent a few months too many off the trails. My creativity has put on some pounds and feels lethargic. I bet the feeling is the same too. The thought of “I should totally go running today!” is immediately stamped out by the realization that the stretches will be agony, you’ll be hopelessly out of breath, and that 7 minute mile will be completed in a humbling 12.
Maybe it’s dramatic, but it’s all too real to me. Writing was such an integral part of who I was all through my time at school. I’m often terrified that the woes of the “real world” are draining me of my enthusiasm, and starving the artist inside. Sometimes I wonder if that little college was like Hogwarts, granting me a magic while I was nestled within it’s walls. Now I aim my wand, one that once boasted such powerful conjurations, and can’t even manage to disarm a first year.
I don’t just love writing; I need it. I am a writer not because I think I have a knack for it, but because it’s my release. I can’t simply vent to friends or go for long, aimless drives to clear my head. I have to put these words down on paper. Or a screen. Or whatever. Writing isn’t simply release. That would be far too easy. Writing is creation. It doesn’t matter if I just watched my entire family get slaughtered or I won the hundred million powerball lottery ticket: I just have to make something of it. It’s so cathartic, because it’s literally my way of making a mark. Maybe for Tumblr, maybe for my blog, maybe for millions of readers around the world one day….but, even it it’s just for me, that’s enough. This is the only way I know how to express myself adequately. And I’m terrified of the thought that I might lose that.
But you know….It’s time I say fuck it. Seriously, fuck that bullshit. This is me donning my shoes. This is me practicing in the room of requirements. I’m not just going to sit here and let writing become a thing of the past. Slow and steady, I go. Knifing scallops off the hull. Scraping the rust, and oiling the gears. It’s time to write again. Every damn day until my heart gives out.
I AM SORRY BUT THIS IS WHY I AM EMBARRASSED TO BE AN AMERICAN. IF A HIJAB THAT DORNS THE AMERICAN FLAG PATTERN IS NOT ACCEPTABLE BUT SKIMPY ASS BIKINIS OR WEARING THE FUCKING ACTUAL FLAG IS ACCEPTABLE, JUST BECAUSE THE PERSON IS WHITE, I WANT TO FUCKING THROW UP.
(I don’t have a thing against Audrey Kitching, she was just merely and example).
But this fucking disgusts me right here. It makes me want to say, fuck this country and its racism and double standards.
I LITERALLY FUCKING CAN NOT
Give her a bullet to the head for walking down the street, minding her own business?? And they think SHE’S the terrorist.