it’s an awful feeling to know that you can write, but you don’t.
to know that people have cried over your writing, and laughed, and felt understood for maybe the first time.
to know that there’s people out there who would smile to see a blog post from the flood appearing in their inbox.
it’s an awful feeling to know that you can write, and to bottle it all inside.
to shove down all those sunsets, shooting stars, first experiences, incredibly enormous little moments – shove them down the way you shove your dirty paper plate on the top of an already-full trash can and slam the lid shut before the pressure shoves it back at you.
it’s an awful feeling to know that you can write – and you used to identify yourself as a writer – but you’re a writer who no longer truly writes. you write for college papers alone, and the rigidity of their rubrics is slowly crumbling your creativity into a small, compressed ball that fits right into your hand where you can squeeze it and feel your palms getting sweaty from the effort.
it’s an awful feeling to know that you can write, but you don’t anymore.
but you could.
there’s only one person on this planet stopping you, and she’s a watered-down excuse of an human who needs help in most areas of her life. you probably needn’t expect much resistance from her – she hasn’t been in the habit of accomplishing much lately and her living muscles have all but deteriorated. yours are weak too but they’re aching from disuse and would willingly welcome pain in order to feel something.
take her down headfirst, and then leave her stunned on the floor. don’t bother to look back at what you’ve left in the dust. look ahead into the world – put on your rose-colored glasses and describe what you see in a way that is shamefully dramatized. do it every time you see the romantic – the hilarious – the breath-taking – the gorgeously simple – and don’t pay too much attention to the words you put on the page. they’re the most terrifying thing to you – you’re afraid that they’re not good enough, that they’re not as good as they used to be.
but badly chosen words are better than no words at all.
it’s an awful feeling to know that you can write.