Tales of a Writer

It is so easy to tell others what to do. To acknowledge what is the next step others should make because you see their world through your point of view. You get to step back and see all angles and most of the time we forget to do that for ourselves.

It is a difficult matter, to say the least, and say that life will “bring you down”. Other times we can acknowledge that we help forge our happiness and that life is derived by the choices we make. With all that being said, it is never easy to equate these words with our own life.

What is it that drives me to the edge of sanity? It may seem that I am going mad but based on the definition of insanity, you could compare me to such a state. I am a writer, it is in my bones, yet why am I not a writer? It is a perplexing question but let me explain myself. As those who may share this concern or understand what I write, once I have finished, maybe we can come together and find a solution. The problem is this, I simply do not let myself be.

We become lost in the complexities of life. We work full-time jobs, lack vacations, and because of the current state of the economy (in regards to the states, in my case) I can’t afford to take a time off. It is truly hard. What once was considered a livable wage is now a joke. Those moments that I could gather for myself, I waste based on the vanities of this world and I find myself secluded in my mind. I seek an escape and plague myself in work, yet because of expenses must sacrifice any sense of what I could be, by pretending to like or be someone I am not through the job. I’ve seen it as clear as day, people just like me, part of a system that kills dreams by cleaning them asleep while depriving them of what they need.

Now, I understand that time is a factor we can control and before we allow life’s difficulties to overtake us, we should grab the wheel and stay on course. Yet the reality is that things don’t always work out how we see fit. Even so, the plague of sitting myself down and writing is a feat on its own. Yet I must write. I feel like something is missing when I don’t write.

The consistency. How do people do it, I can easily tell people about ways to stay focused yet when it comes to myself, I lose track of time and focus. I’ve seen the worlds within explode or disappear because they are not shared. I’ve experienced moments that I wish to convey and describe so that others can grasp a sense of what it is, yet find myself hindering all acts of doing so.

I am the problem. I have masked who I am by allowing the world to distract me. I have lost that passion not because of what I say but because of what I don’t do. I look out and see what I need to do to survive and yet forget that sometimes I must risk it all and die. Such it is with love, you give your all and share who you truly are with another. When you find your purpose, you must do just that, if not you will always feel like you’re not giving it your all, you feel as if you need more.

Writing can be classified as a hobby but as well, as those other writers know, it is a way of life, it is becoming, it is who we are. All I can write is that I need to let myself just be. To stop trying to find a replacement and embrace who I am, master my craft and grow.

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