I’m having a bad time writing for the blog. I told myself it’s because I don’t have much time, but I come to understand that’s not the problem.
The problem is me.
When I look at the draft page, or at the blank page, thousands ideas come to my mind. There are so many things I want to talk about, so many things I need to talk about. And yet, when the pen touches the sheet, my mind empties and I do not know what to write anymore.
It seems that I can’t put two words together, that I don’t make any sense, that nothing is going to come out. I can’t make sense of what I experience or see, because writing is my best tool for it.
It seems my ties with the world are severed, I panick because I feel like I’m living into a bubble and that nothing I do will ever help me.
If writing is a way to give meaning to my life, then it must be obvious that it is difficult to do it sometimes. Some things take a long time to be processed, other simply you can’t move yourself to say – even to yourself.
I would say this is surely part of the reason why I can’t successfully express myself, but the truth is that I also lost the habit of talking. Talking to people.
It must seem completely crazy, to say such a thing. I always was a reserved person, since my adolescence at least. There has always been stuff I wouldn’t talk about, but with my friends I talked freely about everything. Then things became too difficult to be said. I lost some friends, like it happens in life, and then I simply stopped trying to connect to people.
Sometimes it’s because I don’t care or I feel like I don’t need to tell anything. Other times I simply don’t have anything to say. Most of the time, I don’t think anyone is interested in what I have to say and I think it worthless to try share a bit of myself with people who don’t care.
Instead of being a reason to write more, to free myself of all the stuff that need to be said, I even stopped writing my diary. Like I stopped even talking to myself. My mind chases stupid thoughts, without really fixing itself on a serious idea, like it used to.
This all seems impossible, and maybe it is. Maybe it’s just another way my brain is using to tell me how crazy I can be sometimes.