Something has become painfully clear for me over the duration of these past few months: writing isn’t for the originality seekers - it’s for the regurgitators. I have never written anything original in all my life and the words that come are only reincarnations of others I’ve heard. And so a sense of unimportance transpires, and a bruising has found its way onto both my ego and “talent”.
That’s the reason I’ve obliterated several blogspot accounts, the reason I’ve resorted to texting myself thoughts and irrelevant ramblings (at least they’re safe) and the reason I’m wishing for something to say.
God, I wish I had something to say.
…But my hesitancy doesn’t come in the lack of beauty I’m seeing and interest I’m finding in this world - it comes from the abundance! How cruel is that? I can’t think of anything to rub out besides: “Well, today is a beautiful day. I’m alive, I’m healthy, I’ve got all my friends around me and I know just why I am here.”
Welcome to the wasteland: a series of starts, middles & ends (among other things)