reflecting

I used to write from a different place  – a place deep down that didn’t ask for permission and didn’t care if what came out made sense to anyone else. The writing was metaphorical, clever, witty, and intelligent – sometimes raw and emotional. When I read my older writing I’m equally fascinated and confused…by what I had to say and where that voice went.  My voice vanished. Tonight this little flashing cursor is intimidating. It’s blinking expectantly, waiting for me to say something that someone else wants to read.  Maybe that’s the problem – back then I was only writing for myself. I was writing just to write.

I need something to snap me out of this. Maybe it’s from working in stuffy offices too long, hearing too much legal jargon and too little poetry. Maybe it’s from being numb and uninspired in general. I don’t like this place, I don’t like my job, I love life and try to find beautiful things about it every day but sometimes inspiration is evasive.

 

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