Toxic

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. It’s probably a bad idea. But I need to get it out. And then I hope it stays there. Out. Outside my head, my thoughts– which must be far far away.

A few years ago I wanted to be an author. And I was convinced it was all I wanted. But then somethings just convinced me that I couldn’t. Just couldn’t. I truly can’t come up with a story to save my life. But then here and there, things just convince me I was born to write. And it’s strange. because I still can’t come up with a story. And I truly can’t imagine writing anything other than fantasy. And I have been convinced for so long that I love something else entirely and then I just find such liberation when I write, that I’m forced to look back and give it another thought. I don’t think I could ever be a writer. I wonder, could just be a hobby?

My relation with writing is more turbulent than an airplane going straight through a storm-cloud. 

I don’t think I could ever look at it as just a hobby. Or maybe I could– if I was more mature.

I wonder if the reason I don’t ever get a story in my head is because some part of my brain is consciously resisting. The part that fears. The one that is so convinced that writing is gonna make me end up broke and depressed.

It’s honestly so scary. Because what if– what if that part is actually wrong.

And I know– I know that I probably have problems that are pretty worthless and petty and there are people in the world with issues so much greater that I have no right at all to feel sorry for myself. Its actually so disgusting that I do.

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