I write everyday, or at least I try to. Some days are misnomers, outliers, but I suppose this is always going to be so. Some days, I inevitably write more than other, and some days I am unable to write at all. But, the actual writing isn’t a problem. Or at least, it hasn’t been yet. When I look hard enough, the words are always there, waiting for me. And this is something I’m grateful for.
So, this is something I think about a lot. Sometimes I even wallow in a swamp of contemplation, regarding it in the darkest of light. I don’t inherently find writing hard. Of course that doesn’t mean what I write is genius or even acceptable, but the sentences, and the paragraphs, for the most part, they come easily. It is what I write, the context, and the themes which I find conflict within.
I have done very few things. I have experienced very few moments. I have known relatively few people.
In turn, this makes it difficult to inflect certain things within my writing, hard to convey ideas and feelings in the ways I feel most appropriate. I see it like a lake. And the lake I draw the ideas and the words from is in dire need of rainfall, of water to replenish its dwindling reserves, its limited complexity. But for that rain to fall, certain things have to happen within myself. I have to leave the house, interact, in the face of my anxiety. I have to not be terrified of the outside world. It is the biggest mountain that has ever blocked the path on my journey. Somewhere on the other side lay the place I desperately need to reach. A place I have to believe will become a reality at some point in the future.
I need new experiences. I need things to imbue my writing. Maybe it is a self-indulgent, narcissistic venture. But I believe honest, good, happy, and knowledgeable lives are built on the foundation of experience. The more of it I have – no matter what form – the more able I am to say the words I desperately want to say.