LIGHT KNEEING...
There was a time when I absolutely reveled in writing. I wasn't merely fascinated in just the act of writing, but rather was enthralled and nearly sustained by the smear of words on a page, by the seemingly magical touch of a pen on paper or fingers on a keyboard, by the simple yet profound way letters form words to form sentences to form thoughts to transform one's mind about and through a matter or two. I was captivated by the imaginary and felt thoroughly involved in the spreading of ideas in a solitary moment of written expression. I actually found myself feeling more valuable, more accepted in a way, due to my ability in and passion for writing. Its bareness and raw aspects invited me to shed some layers in vulnerability and truly attempt to convey what I was thinking through the window of my feelings; and the fact that I opened a couple of those windows in order to allow the breeze to flow more freely had made my confidence grow and my mind develop. It was truly and fantasticly wonderful.
However, nowadays, I don't care as much. That seems a bit loaded. More definitively, I don't seek my identity in writing anymore. It no longer defines me as much. Rather, I use it to identify with others, and define it with what I know to be true about me. It's a bothersome intricacy to explain, but I know what I mean; I know how closely knit my feelings and thoughts are, and where I've found a balance between my living and writing. I find myself just writing to write these days, not writing to say something extraordinarily special or wise or life-changing. Of course, I'll pen poetry and such in a fashion that may cause one to assume I'm doing so to impress or something of the sort... but I don't mind if that happens. I know it's from inside my heart and head, and not a facade or masquerade to hide behind. I'm comfortable in my writing, even when it's not very good...
More later?
Meh, probably not.
:)
I love you guys.
Goodnight.