This is called Beach Cliff by Ken Parker. I guess that is kind of where I feel like I am right now. I am feeling like I am in between so many things, looking at all, seeing a lot, but committing to none and taking even less action.
I haven't written in so long that it seems as if I have lost myself yet again. I don't know if I should find solace in the fact that I realized it sooner this time? Maybe the missing it means I am not a fraud.
I am not sure what in my brain fails to allow me permission to believe that I am a writer. It shouldn't take being published or recognized for me to feel comfortable saying that I write. After all, we all do. Whether it is for work, homework, our own personal blogs etc., We are all writers... We all have something to say, we all want to be heard and valued.
I don't know why when I think I am moving ahead, I silence my own voice. Not putting the words to paper is giving my power away and not allowing me to live to my fullest self. It shouldn't matter what anybody else thinks, or if anybody ever reads this. It should be ok that I am writing, just for me. Maybe one day, that will truly be enough for me. To write simply for the sake of writing. Simply for the pure pleasure I receive from it.
I don't know why when I think I am moving ahead, I silence my own voice. Not putting the words to paper is giving my power away and not allowing me to live to my fullest self. It shouldn't matter what anybody else thinks, or if anybody ever reads this. It should be ok that I am writing, just for me. Maybe one day, that will truly be enough for me. To write simply for the sake of writing. Simply for the pure pleasure I receive from it.
No comments:
Post a Comment