Over the past few years, I’ve come to notice a pattern in my writing, especially when it comes to my endlessly renewed blogs. I hear my thoughts reaching towards my fingers, ready to lie down as they escape my pen, or flow poetically from my keyboard, then, for some obscure reasons sadistically cooked up in my brain, I suddenly feel threatened by invisible rules, social impositions that prevent me from being this overly sensitive emotional ball of words.
I have what has repeatedly been described as a nostalgia-infused style, words escaping my heart to suddenly repose on fragile shreds of paper sporadically placed around me as I tiptoe my way through life. However, every time I start writing something for my blog, it’s as though an automatic tuning effect takes place, and I start sounding like a radio host, or better yet, a toaster’s installation manual. I tend to exaggerate, but it’s nothing short of the truth; I have the strangest tendency to transform into someone completely different, yet quite the same, doubling for myself while my other side rests or hides away till it all feels safe again. Writers and artists have always had a disturbing habit of figuratively ripping up old projects after some time, feeling completely disengaged towards the piece that once felt just right. Whilst there is nothing I would like more than to call myself a writer or an artist, I don’t feel I’ve earned those titles quite yet, but that won’t stop me from feeling peculiarly close to the persona and all the emotions the resemblance entails. I often feel inadequate, lost, maybe even somewhere away from myself, watching little old me struggling with what truly makes me…well, me.
When I write, it’s as though I light up; I can feel my skin glistening like the lights on a Christmas tree, but the fire is short-lived, washed away by fear and insecurity. I whole-heartedly want to expose the world to my writings, to the innermost workings of my soul, but I’m not quite sure of one thing: is it the world or myself that isn’t ready?