Lately, I’ve noticed something toxic about my writing.
Where once I had a flourish for the written word, a passion that greatly knew no bound, I’ve now found a subversive undertone that has somehow infiltrated my words making them sound more medical journal than a flowing string of beautifully crafted words.
I want to say that I don’t know when this first started but, I’m not too sure that that would be true.
I think I began feeling the first inkling of something wrong a long while ago, somewhere in the hay day of my lowly stagnation in life where nothing was really going right for me, no matter how hard I tried.
It was as if the tides were against me, pushing back at me with everything they had as if I had done them a wrong that they only knew about and were only were coming to get retribution for.
As petty as it sounds, it all felt incredibly personal…
Anyhow, in the midst of all this, I somehow started writing with my head rather than my heart.
The passion was gone from my words, lost to the realms of who knows where into the ether of nothingness that surrounds us on a daily basis.
But, how did I get here, more importantly, how do I get out?
As yet, I still haven’t found an answer to that one.
Scratch that-I have found an answer-way too many, in fact! But, I have yet to implement any of them into action.
A fault, I admit, that is purely my own.
As I base much of my writing on how I feel that day, that hour, that second-basically, If I don’t feel like writing, I don’t write (sad, I know, unproductive, surely)-no surprise my writing talent has quickly diminished and as a result I have no one to blame but myself.
But, again, what to do?
With each passing second, I miss the days where I once had a flourish for the written word, where it was once so easy for me to passionately craft all manner of words together, string all form of lettering to bring forth my funniest of proses, my most dramatic of characters,and pages upon pages of my utmost haunting of scenarios, all in the name of literature and creativity.
The days where my passion would dictate where I was to go that day, what I was to do, who I was to become.
What is to become of me now, that I’ve succumbed to the depths of this cesspool of wallow I have no rightful name for?
What am I to do now, where am I to go?
A question that keeps chasing me getting me o closer to the answer that yesterday did.
What is to become of the creative inside of me that I know is slowly dying each day? The passion that I can feel within the very pits of my soul that is seeping promise from me like leaky crude oil with each breath I take?
With every scratch I make across an empty page, with every click I make upon the screen in front of me, what will become of the writer I hope is still within me, where will she go to find solace for all that she thinks, feels, she’s lost?
It is said that ‘when you know better, you do better’.
…clearly, I have yet to do better…