Writing is a pain in the ass sometimes. I sit down and here is this harrowing white box staring at me and I don’t know what to say. And then I mentally abuse myself for being spineless and pretentious and all sorts of other words that make my inner self want to stand up and protest.
This is what happens when you stop writing for yourself. You think of all the eyes that will find this and you wonder if you’re actually going to be heard. Or better yet, seen. I want that from my writing. For someone to sit back and say…there’s something to this person. She is clever. She is witty. She is profound. She is worth it.
Yes. There you go. I write because I need. Because I am an insecure female that needs to feel like she is contributing something that someone else will find valuable.
Judge me if you want to. I’m not sad, I’m human. You do it too, you’re probably just not as honest about it.
Maybe you should be.
Anyway. That has nothing to do with what I was intending to write here (that happens a lot).
We moved this past week.
I’ve come to find that I’m addicted to these beginnings. To firsts, to brand new, to clean slates. If there is a pattern in my life it’s my residence inside the four walls of inconsistency. I am completely incapable of committing to stationary and complacent.
Once things in my bubble start waning sepia toned, I crumple the whole damn thing and start from scratch.
Do you know what comes with that? It’s like a sudden rush of wide open space and possibility. New things can go here. I can be something else. I can build empires of completely different circumstance.
I don’t think it’s weird or unusual to have your life in a constant state of guess what? Is that unhealthy? To thrive on your own ability to control the things inside your world?
I don’t think so. It’s like dismembering and reconstructing sentences over and over and over again.
Until it’s perfect.
To you at least.
Action and reaction, ebb and flow, trial and error, change –
this is the rhythm of living. Out of our over-confidence, fear; out of our fear,
clearer vision, fresh hope. And out of hope, progress. – Bruce Barton