It’s Been A Minute… Again
8.14.2016
Writing was one of my first hobbies. I felt so powerful. I felt so in control of everything. It was one of the first places where I truly felt accepted. I could be myself. I could bring my desires and dreams into the physical world. With my words, I found friends.
Because my whole heart was immersed into illustrating my thoughts through writing, I physically and mentally felt the support of the universe. Whenever I wrote, everything just flowed. My pen glided across the page with such ease and rhythm. I heard divine guidance conversing with me.
When I first began writing, it had been my dream to share all my unspeakable thoughts with the rest of the world. I depicted events that were indescribable and incomprehensible. I wished to entertain people and allow them to become a part of my imagination. However, when I realized that I could use writing as an escape, I took on a different definition of unspeakable. I began pouring out every feeling- every emotion- that I could not fathom allowing anybody else to hear. In my heart, I knew that it was not worth it because they would just not understand.
Most of my content began streaming from my mind and my ego rather than the universal flow, which had once been second nature to tap into. Most of my content had become so somber and morbid. I highlighted death and suicide in such a positive light. I was obsessed with the idea of ending everything. All of this was art to me. This new style and tone of writing I took on became my ultimate passion and addiction.
Until everything froze. These dismal thoughts were more than just words on paper. I began to shut off from the world around me. From myself. I was so low on self- esteem. I wanted to be here but not here. I was so torn. And the only person I felt understood me could not look me in the eyes. Her soul was a complete void. There was so much I wanted myself to say. So much I wanted to tell myself. So badly I wanted to write. But every time I attempted to sit down at my desk with a pen in my hand, I felt like my only form of expression- my only hobby- was becoming my one despised obligation.
Ultimately, I’m always going to be my harshest critic. Nobody can make me feel a certain way. Writer’s block was so persistent during these times, because I wouldn’t even allow myself to acknowledge what I wrote. I would trash it before I even read it. I just knew it could be better. And reflecting back, everything can be “better”. The word itself is one’s perception, and a person’s perspective is meant to change. Reflecting back, maybe it was not even necessarily low self- esteem that was the biggest contributor to these years of hopelessness. I was so stuck. In all honestly, I knew I had potential. I knew I was capable of more. I knew that whatever I was displaying was not my best.
My one outlet felt like it should have been my one and only destiny. And I no longer wanted it to feel like something I had to do. Something that had to be “perfect”…
This feeling of being stuck and uncertain of where to go next has come back. Except it’s slightly altered. I have fully accepted the fact that I’m meant to be here. At the same time, I’ve been feeling like I carry the weight of the world. I have so much to say, and now I’ve realized that people will actually listen. It’s such an overwhelmingly beautiful feeling. But I feel like I have a role to play. I’ve felt unable to express my thoughts to the world, because I feel like my duty is to purely spread knowledge, love, and wisdom. But these past few days, I’ve had to lecture and remind myself that I’m currently occupying a human body. As are you. That concept alone unites us. I feel stuck a lot. I feel down a lot. And maybe you can connect with that. What I’m trying to say is that I’ve been learning the lesson of expressing the steady whispers of my heart. I recognize that if I speak from my soul, I’ll feel complete. Also by doing so, I will attract the right vibes…
Thank you.
