This is me choosing against another ‘new blog’ and sticking with one that I already have. I heard the inner critic banging a gavel demanding order. Did you? Bang! ‘Now what do you have to say when someone asks – so, what is your blog about?’ I did not have an answer to this question when I jumped between blogs. I still don’t have one. I know that I had started this blog to build a habit of writing – to allow myself space to build on something I enjoy doing. But what to write about? Just about writing? And how I couldn’t write? And how I crawled through years of shitty writing to one day see my skin shed off? Dear reader, were you expecting a happy ending already? But I went back to shitty writing – embracing it like a familiar, warm pillow of mediocrity damp with shaming guilt. Did somewhere I follow a chain of logics responding to – why take the pain of objective assessment when I can just blame myself? I didn’t know that the skin wasn’t me. I was clinging onto a set of attributes that have evolved into my skin and didn’t realize that it was only meant to be shed off. I am trying to remember how it felt to be myself, just writing plainly in a flow uninterrupted by guillotines made of sheaths of doubt and vanity. Maybe I am still crawling, and don’t recognize the shit in the shitty and only see perseverance. Slowing down has been a key aspect for me – someone who keeps jumping from one thing to another fueled by infinite energy with an agenda of going through the day as fast as possible with no apparent purpose for the persistent sense of urgency. As I type this out, I realize, I didn’t say why I started writing again. I still don’t have a reason. And I don’t think I will find one if I don’t write.
Dear writer, when do I see you again?
P.S. There is a creeper in our window which drew my attention today afternoon.