Why? Why do I often think to write at this time of year? Why does it feel like I only write at tumultuous parts of life?
I think about writing all of the time. Constantly, actually. Except there is a narrative in my mind telling me that I haven’t anything to say.
Nothing worth reading, so nothing worth writing. That is a lie, though. My mind is not playing nice.
Writing is an art. With art, I get better the more I do it. If I don’t put time into this, how can I expect to gain confidence and consistency? Too though, I need a muse, inspiration if you will.
Maybe just something, however small, each day, and I’ll be able to get the flow back. I miss the rhythm of reading the words back to myself. I feel the need to fall in love again with this art form of mine that has helped me through every single transition in my life.
I’m in a rut. With writing, and with everyday life. I’ve gotten stuck in thinking that I am physically trapped here, home. And while it isn’t easy getting out, it’s possible. And the more I do that, the more inspiration I am bound to find!
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