The words used to come so easily. Literally every cliche writer’s post in which they described it as “the words pouring out of you.” Because in every way, that was sort of true. But I realized it too late. They don’t anymore. I stare at the screen trying convince my brain I’m writing something worthwhile, when I’m really not.
All I know is that I’m losing contact with life. (or that I haven’t consistently posted anything for the past three months) I can’t concentrate on any one thing. I keep on zoning out of blogging. I haven’t written anything in months. I don’t even read anymore. And I went from the girl who’d finish the future syllabus because she was feeling over efficient, to staying up nights trying to desperately complete my schoolwork.
Which would be horrifying for old me, is pretty horrifying for right-now me. I’m changing. Have I mentioned how much I detest change? It deserves a slap in the face with a gargatuan penguin. (Actually, no. I don’t want to put the penguin through that kind of atrocity.)
I’m so used to relying on words on a printed page for happiness that it’s like a slap to the face when I suddenly just…don’t. Like Eve said in one of her posts;
Sometimes, people tell me that I shouldn’t be relying so much on books for my happiness. I totally get that they’re not, like, living and breathing people you can talk to, but if they make me happy then…WHY NOT? It’s not hurting me, and it’s not hurting anyone else.
That’s pretty much EXACTLY what I’m trying to say, because she’s freaking right. But right now living and breathing people are not making me lose faith in humanity. I’m getting too attached. And I guess I’m scared to be relying on something that….volatile?
At first I thought this was just some kind of slump. But it’s more of zoning out of reading in general and poking your nose in other stuff.
But that’s what life is. So maybe I should embrace change for once. All I’m trying to say is, that yes, it’s okay if the things that used to matter to me don’t matter as much. If I want to go outside and attempt to talk to more people and do debates and ride bikes down snowy gorges rather than sob and read and murder 2658 characters, it’s still okay.
I will still read and write and blog, but it isn’t the bane of my existence anymore. And strangely, even if I wasn’t okay with it at first, I am now. For now…I’ll attempt Nano. As for succeeding at it? Not quite as sure.