Ever felt so lazy that you wouldn’t even want to get up of that bloody bed and get going on your blog? Well, it’s been happening to me for the past few weeks and I’m questioning myself, afraid of my own answer.
What was going on, dear heart?
I was scared it was because I decided I didn’t want to be an author. That’d I’d fully given up writing. What the hell?! I screamed internally. It was terrible. This is terrible. I had not been able to work up the appetite to write and I was distraught. I mopped about the house, went on tumblr for hours without stopping, touched one or no books at all. I didn’t know what I had become. I read so many blog posts and they made me tear up. Why can’t I be like them? Why can’t I do this? Am I really not fit to write? Should I go on and try? I wasn’t sure and I didn’t know who to consult on such juvenile businesses or “mood swings”. Thanks Mom. Every time I pick up the pen or the laptop and log in to WordPress to try to type maybe this blog post that’ll blow everyone away. Or or maybe a story! Stories! Why not? I love stories! But I always can’t. I hesitate. I think too much. I can’t form coherent trains of thoughts. I couldn’t. And it was killing me. I’d blame reading Lord of the Flies for this but I know, that it isn’t the cause of this. It was my wrecked stupid heart. I’d lost faith. And I was scared. Scared to admit, scared to let this thought into my brain, lest it destroy me, destroy everyone around me. What faith have I lost in? Me. Myself. My writing. I know I’m never going to be that author I’d thought I’d be. I didn’t have the will, the commitment, the words. And so, my heart slowly slipped away.
I’m never going to stop blogging. I need an output. I am never going to stop inventing ideas in my brain. I will never stop writing no matter how many people pull me down. Sure, I can’t be an author. But writing is my love. How do I let go of it?