Guys, I really dropped the ball on this whole "writing a consistent blog" thing.
See, I thought writing was my thing for a while. I'd spend hours typing strings of words into cute little stories and then shoving them down my friends' throats, juicing them for compliments and deflecting criticism. At one point I thought I could write a book... and I almost did. I spent over two years writing the book on and off, constantly flip-flopping between self hatred and immense pride.
Writing was my favorite thing in the world. I saw myself grow and change and dream on paper, like looking in a mirror and seeing more than just a plain face and unchangeable imperfections. Hell, I saw just the opposite. I liked the me that stared back through my words, and nothing anyone said could convince me otherwise.
Truth be told, I'm not entirely sure why I stopped writing. The easy answer would be time, of course. I went to college, made a lot of new friends, started working, and lost room for writing in my life. But we all know that's not completely true. When you love something... truly love something like I loved writing... well, there's always time. Even so, these days I find myself taking to the keyboard very rarely. I write essays for class and word-vomit all over facebook chat to kindle friendships, and I somehow completely missed the fact that a chunk of my life had faded away in the process.
Two years ago I wrote my common app essay about the words of fiction keeping me alive, the vowels and consonants pumping through my veins. Reading that essay now, my heart breaks for that ridiculous love of writing that now feels so distant.
So am I done? Done writing? It's hard to say. I used to ache to write, arranging the words to describe a funny story throughout the day. I'd get home and ditch my homework to write, forgetting normal human functions like eating and peeing until I was done. But that ache just isn't there anymore. Writing seems more like a tool to sort my thoughts than anything real. I doubt I'll even end up posting this, because it's just me sorting emotions. Nothing fun or extraordinary.
If you're still reading, we're almost to my stupidly optimistic reflection which you should have been expecting if you knew me at all. See, what if I stopped writing because I started to like the me off the paper more than the me that I'd developed through writing? I'll be the first to admit that I was not a very confident person when I started this blog. I was quiet, reserved, and felt more comfortable in my own head than talking to the people around me (aside from a select few of my best friends). In addition, I was not in the best of places. My dad passed away a few months before I started this blog, and the fact that I could not even write those words until today, four years later, speaks to the lack of control I had over my feelings.
These past two years in college, I have changed more than I ever could have expected. Not only do I feel more comfortable in my own skin, but I cherish the conversations and relationships that I have built more than anything. When I look back at my time in high school I see a dark chasm, peppered with a few glimmering reflections of nice memories. These days I see nothing but sun (for the most part). I'm happy and I'm content, and the me that existed based off of my writing and drawing isn't nearly as comforting as the me in the real world. I've lost the ability to connect with my goldfish persona because I have surpassed her.
NOW FOR THE CONCLUSION BECAUSE I PROMISED IT WAS COMING.
So basically, as I have just now figured out during the writing of this post: I may have outgrown the part of me that needed to write to get by, but I do not think that I have outgrown my love of writing. There. I said it, though we all know my words means nothing. I love writing (even if I may forget about it occasionally), and I will keep writing.
Life is good, and writing makes it better.
