It’s that time again. Time to write because my thoughts are just running and running and I can’t turn them off. I used to write alot, you know. That’s who I was: The Writer. I couldn’t stop the constant flow of words and rhyme that fell from my brain onto paper. I constantly had a pen in my hand, or had notes all over my room and the things I owned. I was sad then. My world was a mess of teenage girl syndrome, mixed with the horrors and chaos of real life. So, I wrote. I wrote about how plain I was, I wrote about loss, I wrote about hopelessness and desperation… and it moved me. I really used to love to write.
It stopped when I became happy, I think. I was so afraid to write the positives, in fear that my instinct would focus too much on the flaws. I just wrote best when I was sad. Happiness meant writers block. Maybe that’s why I stayed sad so long. I stayed sad so that I could write, so that I could feel complete.