Strange how progress in one’s life can completely shut down the desire to write.
Stranger, still, how emotional turmoil causes one to withhold their stories in an effort to appear strong and capable.
Where does one find solace in the midst of life’s progress, and thus, their own personal anguish? Which stories should and should not be told? How much of a fool must one become to realize they are only repeating their own words when their contrived conditions are finally met to place their life on display?
I’ve been in this place before. Feeling as though I must share something wise and poignant for it to hold any worth. Truth is, I really just want to write to help others. Myself included. No matter what I do or how I’ve changed ever since I started this blog, my motivation to write here will always stem from that.
Kind of like I refuse to speak if I have nothing constructive to say. Strange, if not ironic, how that works.