Does a good writer ever turn into a bad one?
I read backwards in my diary all of the time, focusing on certain entries that make me cry because I think they are just so beautiful. They jump off the screen at me, I can feel every feeling I expressed and I understand my thoughts...I am amazed by my thoughts. I'm amazed by my level of introspection, by what I claim to have "realized" on what seems like a weekly basis, I'm even amused by the flow of my mind, wondering how I came to write about things that I did. Sometimes I can't remember what could have evoked it so regularly, and I yearn for those days where I had so much to say, where I didn't feel confined by anything. Have I let my ego soar through the roof if I am sitting here now, believing that admist a lot of whining and sobbing, I had some moments of brilliance?
I can't figure out where I went wrong, or if I ever "went wrong" at all. I want to be the kind of writer I used to be. It is utterly unreal that I appear to be more alive during the months I felt half-dead. Now that I am sufficiently more emotionally stable, I react so much less to everything - and is that better? It is healthier I think. But it has hindered my creative juices considerably.
I've been saying it since I started regaining my sanity, but I lost my passion somewhere down the line. Maybe it is natural. I remember hearing once that the best writing one does is most likely during their lowest points in their life. I want to be happy and produce exquisite recollections of my life as I used to. I want to re-live memories as vividly as I was once capable of doing and I want to make people fall in love with me through my words. I want to be able to explain what I'm going through...because these are good years, these are quality years I cannot ever forget. I am becoming a woman, slowly but surely. I want to remember what this was like.
I need to start seeing what is around me. I have been isolating myself lately, locking myself away from the beauty that is enveloping me, begging to be noticed and crying to be heard. I want to see symbolism in everything as I used to. I used to hold a baby and feel it's touch soar straight to my heart, I used to watch the mountains and understand where I live, where I come from, and what I should love about every moment of my life, even when I didn't feel like loving anything at all.
I used to think I'd never be in love every again, but I think I am in love now, with this new boy who is almost home. This amazes me, excites me, sends shivers through me like an ice cold wind that you secretly love because the pain makes it so much more real. In less than three weeks he will be able to hold me, and I want to share that with you. I want to be able to describe every touch, I want to explain the electricity between us. I want him to come home so badly that it is beyond anything I can write - but no, it's not beyond - I am still capable. I'm not so sure anymore that some moments have no words. There are always words. It's just a matter of how you use them.
I feel inspired now and again to be the writer I used to be. I want to be able to say I am a writer still, but I don't know if I can. I feel like a disgrace to all of the real writers out there, who can still find things they love and hate about the world, and that they in turn feel are worthy of describing.
I hope I can tell you everything about my boyfriend, because there is a lot I don't say even to my closest friends. It just doesn't come out anymore, it's all locked away in my mind. Like those memories from last summer, riding in his pickup truck down country roads on a hot, late August night. Cuddling deep into his chest and looking sideways at the farms, realizing this again is where I live, and this is my farm boy, with the big hard body and the scruffy facial hair. I love his mechanic hands and his electric blue eyes that make me tremble. He is so incredibly important to me that it would be devasting not to record my time with him. So it shall begin soon.
His name is Matt.
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