Recently I’ve been really struggling with my creativity and writing. I put so much of myself and my creativity into work that I don’t have the motivation to come home and do my own thing. When I was in high school, I don’t think there was I time when I WASN’T writing. A book, a short story, a poem, my journal- I always had a pen in hand. It slowly started to drift away when I moved out to LA, and all but disappeared within the last year.
Thinking about it physically makes my heart ache because it was such a big part of my life.
If you don’t know, I’ve been in the process of moving into a new apartment- so I’ve been purging and cleaning out my things and I wanted to share with you something I found. I wrote this at the beginning of the year and when I found it again it really hit home:
I used to write because it was my escape from reality. My work was my paradise. My world to control. If I wanted something to happen, words would pour out on paper and my hand would never get tired because my mind was racing. Word by word like a tidal wave- too into the story to be distracted by the physical pain of an aching hand.
I would mold the perfect version of myself with words. I could be whoever and wherever and whenever. I could make someone fall in love with me, I could fall in love with them. I could do things I never really do, write about people who could never really exist.
I created worlds never created. I thought thoughts never dreamt. I said words I’ve never said and it was all real. It had to be. Because it was mine.
I didn’t have some tragic backstory to fuel my work, but I had dreams. And with a pen and some paper I could paint. I could paint an entire world and and entire life and tailor make it to however I wanted it to be.
I could play God. When I wrote, I gained the control I never had but always wanted.
I could build and destroy. I could create and destruct. Like a bird, I built a nest in which I raised my dreams. Writing was my cocoon until I became a butterfly.
And someday I’ll find this.
Some day I’ll read these words and be taken back to exactly how I was feeling when I wrote them. Because even when I don’t write my feelings or thoughts I always remember. Words like these are like a timestamp on my heart. They transport me back to whatever heartache or fantasy I was living.
I miss being able to fill up a page.
And would you look at that…
I just did.
“It’s hell writing and it’s hell not writing. The only tolerable state is having just written.”