source: amber dawn’s non-paper journal.
Hitting the backspace key a lot tonight. Delete, delete, delete. If I wrote when the interesting thoughts come at me throughout the day, I’d have a lot to write about and I wouldn’t be sitting here struggling to force what is essentially nothing out. I am almost blank at this point because of the things I refuse to write about and the late night zoning out that my brain wants to do because it doesn’t seem like I should bother doing this if I’m not going to give ‘er. What’s the point of writing any amount of words if you’ve got nothing to say - or worse, you refuse to write the stuff you’ve got inside you? I’m wasting my time and anyone who is bothering to read this. I’m not even trying to reach my potential. This is why I’m not a real writer.
It doesn’t matter that these are journal entries. That’s not what’s stopping me from being a writer. It’s the fact that I’m holding back. I’m not writing what is on my mind. I’m not telling you what happened today. The facts or the emotional conflicts of daily life. My perspective on the life only I can give because it’s me that’s living it. I’m not even sharing my opinion on the news of the day. I’m typing one word after another as if this is some boring homework assignment - but it’s not - it’s my life.
I’m writing because I want to put myself out there. Yet, I’m holding out on myself. I’ve got myself reigned in for what? For who? Why? What good is it doing me? I’m frustrated as fuck. I’m supposed to be writing like I know what I’m doing by now. It’s not supposed to feel like this, like I haven’t done it before. I have to figure out how to get far enough away from whatever is causing me to shut down on myself so that I can let myself write my words.
When the way we let others treat us became how we treat ourselves. How we have to change that before we run out of time. How we don’t know how.