The seasons of my life are marked by a sad heap of abused journals, marred at the binding by my ever-fluctuating desires and regrets to document what I struggle with, what I think, what I feel. And despite their suffering, they are emptied.
I love writing. I used to do it all the time. It’s a very intimate, vulnerable thing for me to dictate what happens within my introspective moments and those humbling learning experiences. Now, I rarely can find words to match thoughts. It’s something I’m really, really not good at anymore.
I’ve attempted three different online blogs, countless journals, and a private Instagram account. I posted a few things here on Medium out of brokenness a while ago, and those have bit the dust as well. Because I’ve changed so drastically over the past year and my future plans are ever-fluid, writing and posting anything seems to be a risk.
Right now, I have eight drafts sitting on this app that I revisit from time to time. They may never see the light of day, but at least they exist somewhere. I ackowledge the things about me that I wish weren’t true. I put them in words in attempt to diagnose and search myself for the root cause of the things I need to externalize and work out. Right now, the answer is to keep writing. But I think, for now, I’ll be keeping my messes to myself.