I haven’t written anything of value or worth in way too long. It feels unnatural. Almost like I haven’t really been living this whole time. But I have. So much has happened. There’s so much I could write about. Like how I fell in love 6 months ago, or how for the first time in my life I lost someone close to me, or how I mysteriously developed a knack for programming. I don’t know why I haven’t written anything. I don’t know what I’ve been waiting for. It’s really unusual. But that’s not what I wanted to write about today.
I can’t remember what I wanted to write about. I don’t feel like writing is something I still know how to do. I’m scared I’ve let a huge part of my identity go. I’m scared I’d never be able to write anything worth reading anymore. Writing suddenly doesn’t feel like my getaway. It doesn’t feel natural to me. I can’t paint pictures in my mind and bring them to life with my words. But then come to think of it, could I ever? Was I deluded? Did I fool myself into thinking I could actually write? Did I make writing my hobby because it really was, or did I just like the idea of it? Did I only fall in love with the idea of being a writer? Because writing should be like breathing. It should be something you can’t live without, like an addiction, but one you know you wouldn’t mind dying of because it’ll be worth it.
I want to write everyday of my life and never feel like it’s enough or sufficient. Writing isn’t a phase. Its a lifestyle. One I don’t ever want to get over.