Feb. 2, 2018
My thoughts are muddled and confused. When my pen hits paper, I scribble out pages of vacant words. Hours and hours of work, and yet I have nothing to say of it. I pace my room in an agitated stupor. Why cannot I pour myself into this? Why do I -- after a lifetime of writing -- find myself struggling to write one good paragraph? Over and over again I have done this, each and every time finding myself strung between two worlds that refuse to connect. emotions obscure the way, severing two realities. I stare at the box in my closet. It is a collection of lost hopes and disappointments. This box holds all the stories I've attempted, all whom came haltingly and with resistance. None are completed, none lived up to the potential I saw there. Each time I say to myself, "This will be your breaking point! This time, you will be successful." But alas. It has yet to happen. I have one small success to my name, one short story I've completed and feel almost satisfied with. But when will I break through this and create what I am capable of?? None can tell. For I am the writer who cannot write, the girl with a voice, yet cannot speak. I lay aside my pen, slipping another folder into a box of forgotten failures, no more than gathered dust.
How am I?: Very hopeful, quietly suffering, and mostly satisfied. I've been editing an old, old story of mine and the review of past grievances has cleared some of the dead brackage in my soul. Maybe with a little tweaking, a change here and there, and some advice from the experienced I can bring my story up to beat. And after that? you ask. I'm not yet sure. Perhaps I'll catch the moon.