To my dearest, two viewers.

For days I’ve been sitting here looking at the cursor blink on the screen. I have nothing to say. I have everything to say. Sometimes I believe it’s the times in which I have too much to say that I can’t write anything with any kind of substance. In this case, my brain is pregnant with “what ifs” and jumbles of half thought out sentences that wouldn’t even make sense to a child.
Is it safe to say I have writer’s block? Or is writer’s block an imaginative idea that I don’t even qualify to have because to have it I must actually be a writer? The two questions circle my brain in which I currently only consider to be a useless jelly filled substance inside my skull. One thing that is safe to say is that today, I’m a little pessimistic.
I remember a time period where everything I wrote seemed to be so profound to me. I poured my thoughts into the wonderful structure of strict poetry. But I definitely mistook immaturity for creativity, and as I read them now I become my very worst critic. It seemed I liked to write a lot more when I thought I had any kind of talent. It’s the times when I am doubting every word on paper, or in this case on screen, that I become frustrated with my lack of skill for something I love to do.
This then raises the question to me… does it matter if I am good enough if I love to do it so much? I would really like to believe this in the affirmative, in fact I often do. But with my relentless mindset of powerful need for my work to be read I grow impatient, and incredibly self critical.
Indeed tomorrow I will feel nothing of the sort. I will feel happy to be alive and doing what I love to do around the people I love to be with the most. But for now, I will continue to stare blankly at that cursor I so deeply despise.


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