After some consideration, I’ve reluctantly decided to maybe stop blogging. At this point in life, I have too much going on. I can’t write anymore, and I’ve had writer’s block–more like nuking of all creativity–for nearly a year. I have a “shitload” happening in my life, and I’m not in the right state of mind to pour forth anything from myself when what I need to do is recapture myself.
In other words, it’s not you, WordPress, it’s me.
Blogging was fun while it lasted, but now it’s become an annoying chore. Y’know, I started keeping journals/diaries/whateverthefuck when I was in 4th grade, but I jotted down my thoughts “like dis on da comp errday afta skoo or wen sumthin was buggin me.” I used Notepad, on the computer, two years after I learned how to even use one (I was 9-10 years old then). Suffice to say, my thoughts during 4th & 5th grade were erased after that shitbox of a desktop crashed. Then I received a Harry Potter diary, when I was in 6th grade, and I wrote journal entries as well as short stories and poems. Unfortunately, I got pissed for whatever reason one day and tore everything up before tossing it into the trash. I still regret doing so, because more than anything, I’d like to read my 12-year-old thoughts and see how far along I’ve come. Instead, I just have journals from 7th grade until now, totaling 17 notebooks.
From 13 to almost 21 years old. When I read the first couple books, I blush at my naivete. I’ve read [and written] so many pubescent love poems to last my braincells a lifetime. However, I’ll admit, recalling the innocence I wielded is so… touching… because I’d never known such dismay, betrayal, and heartbreak, as I do now.
I feel like I need to retrace my steps and return to the “roots,” and yes, the roots of writing. Before public polls, before blasting out stories on news-feeds, before exploitation, when the roots of my words materialized in privacy, on $0.10 notebooks bought from OfficeMax during back-to-school season with $0.15 plastic ball point pens, all while I was knee-drawn up to my chest hunched over my journals, during the dead of the night when I could easily grasp my settling thoughts. Now that was real writing.
So, it was a fun time Blogs, but remember, it’s not you. It’s me.
