Not so long ago I felt like I knew how to write. I thought I knew how to make the words fly off the page and into the hearts of people willing to give a moment of their time to ingest my thoughts.
I also used to think that I had to be sad, or depressed, to come up with something well worth reading. This was mainly because the best of me always came out during my darkest moments, where the emotions ran freely. I felt like people cared, at least, on this platform and it always made me feel a little better typing away as the tears ran down my cheeks.
Now I type away aimlessly with nothing more to show than the average Joe. People don’t look twice anymore. These magic that used to be my words have faded with time. I don’t care if my gifts have been taken from me. It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve sat facing the screen with nothing in mind and nothing in my heart. I feel empty and I have spent quite some time wondering if I had any real emotions to begin with.
I feel like this itself is pathetic.
I feel like I’ve spent so much time trying to assimilate that I have done so at the cost of all the things that made me who I was. People don’t want to read shit like this. I get it. I don’t know what people want to read these days. I know I shouldn’t care. Accommodating to the wants of people never leads to anywhere worthwhile and I really should know this by now, yet, I still consider these things when I write. I wonder if people will approve of what I write. I wonder if people will like what I write and keep reading and perhaps even leaving a comment. Now that would all be great, but it’s not something I expect anymore. I don’t know what people like to read these days. I don’t know what constitutes as good writing.
What’s changed? I can write decent academic essays that get me good grades, but I can’t write a blog post that nets a comment or two. Not anymore, at least. Maybe the things I write aren’t controversial enough. It’s not infused with the drama that people like to read these days. It’s not citizen journalism or the gossip column.
I’m still bothered by the same things that have haunted me for as long as I can remember. What changed? I was okay with being dysfunctional. I didn’t feel as much of a freak then, as I do now. I was okay with being ridiculed and scrutinized. I was okay with living each day being misunderstood. It wasn’t comfortable or ideal, but I lived with it. I still do, not by choice.
I feel like I’ve lost my words. Deeper than that, I feel like I’ve lost myself yet the thing that really bothers me is that I’m not so sure I want to find myself, again. Maybe it’s better this way, being lost deep within the sea of people, trying just as hard each day to be like everyone else, doing the things that everyone does, being as normal as I possibly can appear to be.