It’s been a while since I blogged and I wish I could blame it on writer’s block but nothing in my life is ever that simple. I’ve written some of my best work in the last few months because of how susceptible life has left me. But with every draft comes a plethora of worry and concern about what it is that I’m conveying to the people who read my words.
There is a serenity that comes with being able to bare the inward parts of your soul on paper. Since I can remember writing has helped me to figure out whom I am, where I have been and in those epiphanic moments where I’m going. While my words gave a voyeuristic eye into my life, they don’t define my whole being. The girl that existed pages ago could have very well changed her mind. I write about things when I am over them or when I need to push myself to unload the monstrous clutter surrounding my feelings. Life has altered immensely for me within the last six months in the most poetic way. I’ve lost someone I considered my soul mate, developed a new rapport with my mother, grew apart from a few close friends and have become unemployed. Where people see pain, I have reveled in how galvanized my prose has become because of these dark events. How life is willing me into being great because happiness has the tendency to leave many complacent. Torturous sadness I share for the therapeutic aftermath or to help those afflicted by the same pain to be aware there is someone who shares in the same sentiment.
Life is good and life is bad and I’m just ushering through it all.
From these words many people have drawn concrete assumptions about who I am. In a recent conversation with a new subscriber to my blog, I was accused of “not loving myself” or being someone who wants to wallow in sadness. In response, I have begun to question who I am – not that I really know – but it has heightened insecurities that come along with self-express and how others view the things I scribe. Negating the relativism of my writing and how beautifully flawed every person is.
It has been said that a writer is many people trying hard to be one person. If there’s one thing I know about myself it is that I am a walking contradiction and a conundrum of uncertainties. Life has continually knocked me down but it has never left me stagnant and my pen bleeds with every emotional shift and I continue to march on. These words are just a space in time, a momentary emotion or a reflection of the former. The culpability that comes with exposing your perspective on life and the people who it affects is tremendous, easily when it denotes negativity in any form. And that is something you cannot understand if you’re not publicly casting your own demons.
Like many other forms of art darkness serves as a great source of inspiration. Happiness is easy to capture because the warmth is freeing. Tears of joy roll down the apples of cheeks as freely as the Nile runs but tears of sadness well up in the corner of your eyes affecting your vision for however long they wish. In those moments you have no choice but to just exist and push through all the emotions that overcome you. This leads to exponential amounts of growth because you have to readjust to the demanding recalcitrance of life no matter how heavy your soul.
Writing should allow me to exist without justifying every waken feeling to those who decide to share in my words. If nothing is more apparent in my realm, it is a lineage of growth, progress and an ever-changing being. What this brand new me wants more than anything is to selfishly escape her inhibitions, share her discoveries of who she is and who she is becoming without mollifying her truth for the judgmental banter of others.