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.
You were the light in my darkness that helped me find my way. You were my beacon of love that I followed everyday. You were the glimmer of hope within my despair. You were the stitch in my wounds so they’d no longer tear. The strength to my weakness and the beat of my heart. My muse and my passion that inspired my art.
You were my everything. You were my soul. So without you now, two is the toll. Death is imenent when the light has been snuffed out. Leaving the darkness to fester and mingle about.
It no longer mattered. There was no one there waiting for her to feel better. They had all left when she needed them most. She was too much for anyone to handle and now she could no longer even handle herself. It was only a matter of time before it had come to that really. It had already been some time since the tears were able to be contained within her body, for her soul had managed to form a hole that could not be patched. The inevitability of this situation was beyond predictable from the beginning. Now a reality, at least she could say that something finally went according to plan. Now the pain was finally snuffed out.