Start writing…

The universe seems to be trying to push me back into writing.

It has been a long time… such a very long time since I wrote anything that wasn’t a journal. The last notable thing I wrote was Crayzee Mayzee, which I never finished, due to lack on interest by the general public.

Before that, I hadn’t written anything but an outline since I met my ex. And that was in 2013. I am out of practice, and also, no one reads.

I can’t even get any attention towards my art and music, which I’ve spent my entire life building the skills for… so now, I am having a creative block and I can’t think of anything to do, other than write, but I just don’t feel that spark I once felt that drove me to write. Aside from that, I always had this nasty curse of my writing always coming true. I was like an unwilling prophet, and it started creeping me out.

I suppose there’s still the story of my life, which has already happened, so there’s that. But the more I think about all I’ve been through, the more fucking made-up it sounds, just because it’s hard to believe one person could have such bad luck.

By the same token, I feel like others have been dealt far worse hands than mine, so who the hell am I to tell a woe-is-me tale..?

There are those who would say that suffering is relative, and just because others have had objectively worse things happen in their lives, it doesn’t invalidate my suffering.

Still, I can’t seem to stifle the voices in my head that belong to every person who has belittled me for feeling things that they simply cannot understand unless they have lived my life. Whether those voices have any merit is literally beyond me at this point, because everyone is so divided these days. Am I valid, or do I need to suck it up and shut up?

If only I could tell my story from the point of view from which I personally experienced it… perhaps it would clear up any misunderstandings that may have occurred with relationships that went awry. Or, it might just cause those who have made up their minds to think that I am a vile and insidious creature feel more valid in their opinion of me.

I can’t be everyone’s cup of tea. But I could easily be no one’s, and that is what frightens me about sharing my life story.

I have such a limited window of time in which to decide, and who knows when disaster could strike, so if I don’t make up my mind soon, it’s entirely possible that no one will ever truly know me. Most likely, they still won’t understand me, but they could at least know me. And maybe my life story could be someone else’s survival guide in the future.

I’m going to ponder this for a bit, and maybe I will return to tell it all, or perhaps I will return to blather on about what’s happening now, or maybe I will never return. That’s the tricky thing with time. When you have it, you never know what to do with it, but when you need it most, it evades you.