Im a rebel without a cause, or more importantly, Im a writer without words. Actually, for all intents and purposes, im not a writer at all. Im just a person that occassionaly decides to write. That doesnt make me anymore different than any other person out there. I have ideas so I suppose you could call me creative. A writer though? I dont even know what that is anymore.
I thought I had a passion like no other for writing. I even have two permaneant tattoos that grace my body that pertain to that passion. Some how though, even with my body donning those declarations, the most important tattoo of them all, faded. While it wasnt created in ink upon my skin, it was one I never assumed I would see go. The portrait of passion had been etched across my heart since I was a child. Now, The only remnants of that portrait is a scar left behind from being stratigically lasered out while I wasnt looking.
Some where, in-between different hobbies and family, I allowed myself to let it go. I allowed myself to cut out what I once envinsioned to be my most important tattoo.
I still think about the passion I had. Thats all I ever do about it though, think about it. The thoughts rarely become words and I go back to asking myself why? I used to say that I just didn’t have the time. Then I just said there wasn’t motivation to do anything. It was then I realized that the idea of motivation had more to it. That it was passion that fueled motivation. It was then, that I understood that the passion was gone.
I had already cut ties with other blogs I participated on and any other networking I was doing outside of my Twitter account. I knew it was fading then. I had no responsibilities to the writing world anymore except for those I created myself. It was actually freedom. I had one less thing to worry about outside of my every day life. That right there speaks volumes as to rather or not I still carried around the passion. The answer was so obvious. It’s still so very obvious. I have the scar there to prove it. And yet…
I still get that inkling. Just every once in a while. The ideas still pop up and my fingers become itchy. My mind roams and my thoughts land on writing. I still think about it. I still want to do it. But not always. Hardly ever. It’s still there though and it bugs the shit out of me.
I honestly wish I could erase the memories of the passion I had for it. How enthusiastic I could be when I was putting my ideas into the written word. I wish I could stop the ideas from coming. Since I can’t, it just leaves me confused.
What does this mean? Is the passion truly gone or just being over shadowed by life? Are the ideas just remnants of the creative bone that is now broken? Cause let’s be honest, I could never seem to finish a damn thing I worked on.
Am I writer on hiatus or just a person with a random hobby? Do I lack passion or motivation? Do I fight to bring it back or do I just let it slip all the way until it’s gone?
In all honesty, my confusion is due to my incessant depression that tends to loom over my head. Most days I can’t tell if how I am is due to that or if I just blame that because it’s easier. Is my lack of passion for anything because of that or have I become lazy and uncaring as life continues to move on?
It seems like a million questions without a single answer. I’m left with only speculation because even I don’t know myself well enough to give the answers. The only thing I know for sure is that at this moment, the passion, the life force that made my writing enjoyable and easy, is gone.
Honesty is the best policy. Right? Well I think now is a great time for a little of my honesty.
I have been attempting to run this blog for the past couple of months. I say attempting because I really don’t know a whole hell of a lot about doing it properly. It is what it is though and I have tried my best to continually post things on a schedule and even recruit others to join. I have failed on occasion. Including this week actually. I haven’t posted anything yet. No “Poem of the Week”, no submissions from other writers, not even anything I have written. I suppose that makes me somewhat of a failure. Maybe it just means I don’t care too much about the blog. Could it possibly mean that I don’t give a shit about writing anymore?
What it really is, is that I am tired.
I want to be a writer. “But you are” you might say. I suppose that’s true but really, there isn’t much I have written lately. Almost everything I have posted with my name attached are older works I have previously written. Recently the only thing I have been good at doing is simply editing, pushing the publish button, and advertising. I would no longer use the word “writer” to describe who I am anymore. Though I wish I could. I’m sure the writer is still there but it doesn’t like to come out when it’s asked to. Therein lies the reason why I am tired.
I’ve never been a fan of deadlines. I have always despised schedules. Yet here I’ve been, trying to force words to come forth when I just haven’t had them. I have always believed in writing when you felt like you had to. Writing when the ideas came. I never wanted to be someone that wrote because they were “made to” but solely because they wanted to. For the simple reason of feeling that passion building within and words begging to be scrawled. So now, I am tired of trying. Tired of trying to force the ideas when they aren’t ready. I’m tired of conforming to a set schedule that my mind and heart just aren’t in sync with right now.
So as of right now, there is no longer a schedule to the blog. At least not one I will be implementing for the time being. What used to be posts on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, will now be posts whenever I have them and can publish them.
The email address is still open for submissions to the site. I will post them if and when they come in. That will not change. My work however may become scarce for a bit or it may all of a sudden become abundant. It’s an unpredictable force of nature.
The bottom line is that I don’t know when the words will come, and honestly, that’s kind of the best part.
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