To my surprise, a few of my close friends have inquired about my current literary achievements- or lack of. Mind you, these are people from high school when I was a keen writer so when they remember me as the type of person whose world revolved around the power of words, it’s very endearing that they still remember me as the person I’m trying to find again.

I’ve been putting the blame on autumn’s stagnation, but it’s really the double edged sword of procrastination and my ongoing search for inspiration. I truly believe that when it comes to writing, you write what you know. You need to feel seething passion and raw emotion boil in your bloodstreams to actually write a masterpiece or something mildly decent, but I’m unfazed with the snippets I write and my official writer’s block notebook is quickly filling with random elaborate words and meaningless euphemisms.

So I’m searching.
I’m searching for motivation.
I’m searching for inspiration.
I’m searching for depth.
I’m searching for a paradigm shift.
I’m searching for something simple yet complex.
I’m searching for a fucking feeling.

I miss the days when I was able to feel everything that I felt suffocated by its immersion. The tumultuousness of the past allowed me to understand aspects of myself that I loathed and accept as my own distinct flair. My passion is digressing to mediocrity. I was so desperate that I made the mistake of digging up long lost feelings in order to complete a poem, let alone a stanza. Although it read beautifully with clever metaphors, it was artificial and I felt I was conning not only myself but potential readers. The past is just a figment of my imagination, the future is a possibility that has yet to be attained, but the present is taking the best of both worlds and putting it to action. My past has been reduced to photographic realism and visual words that hold no meaning so I’m not going to allow myself to be nostalgic and honoring anything for more than it was worth.

Maybe writing isn’t my thing.
Maybe I’m too critical.
Maybe I let myself go without even knowing it.

The few that know me well always say that I think too much for my own good and that I always hurt myself with my adamant pessimism. While it’s true that I tend to overanalyze things, I wouldn’t consider my pessimism a burden against myself but rather a self-induced pseudo psychological defense mechanism. I would rather come into a situation with the perspective that I will face disappointment than get my hopes up only to see it falter.

However, my pessimism is molding into a complex predicament. I have managed to conclude that if I can’t help but feel pessimistic about certain situations, what’s the point of driving down a road where you know you’re just going to hit a brick wall?

Even though you know you may not reach your destination, you should still embark on the journey because you don’t know what you’re in for. You might see something you’ve never seen before, learn different things, meet different people, try new things, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll find out that brick wall you were so worried about never existed. But if does exist, wouldn’t you be happy that you decided to take that ride because it helped you shape the person you are?

Yes, I’m capable of being an optimist as most people see me, but it comes down to the fact that I don’t want to relate idyllic moments with failure. I’ve failed too many times and growing weary of my array of learning experiences that I’ve grasp the perception that it’s better to be impenetrable and be a seemingly emotional void than allowing others to see through you.

Wow, I just got off topic.

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