There are so many things I want to write — I dream them up during my commute, down the parts where I think of the pictures I want to post with them.
Then I realize that I still haven’t studied all of the post-via-email formatting because of <i>certain restrictions</i> and I stop myself DEAD in writing. I end up internally curling up into a ball in my head and rocking helplessly, worrying about how my post won’t be ~pretty~ — and today, I’m just like:
Like, seriously, fuck it.
There was also a part where I worried where I worried that what I post would be ~irrelevant~ or not ~thought provoking~ enough; then I got a mental kick in the butt, and I told/asked myself:
Like, since when did I let the lack of ~pictures~ stop me from expressing my thoughts? What are words for? Since when did I ever start giving a fuck about what how pretty my writing is?
It’s funny because I’ve written some lengthy emails as of late (some of the very personal kind), and I’ve started writing in my journal again where I feel the most "free" (ie. no fucks given with regards to perceived quality of writing, the topic, etc.). In the case of the emails, the recipients actually find my writing entertaining and engaging; and my personal sign that my writing’s at least "okay" is that I don’t cringe when I reread my own work.
I’ve also lamented over how I don’t have a rhythm. Like, no, you can’t expect posts from me every week or every month. I’m the type of person where I have bursts of creativity then I just fizzle out for a certain amount of time; then come back again.
And guess what? THAT’S TOTALLY OKAY.
I’m not one of those who write for a living (I don’t think I can withstand that kind of work lmao), so it’s one of those things where I can truly be the boss of me. It’s not like I have an avid readership and regardless of your success, they come and go too because life happens. It means that the only one imposing these pressures (imagined at best) on me is… me.
I could end with a note to the tone of, "what to expect from this blog from now on", but — whatever. This is one of my outlets, and I can write as long and as short as I want; as deep and as shallow as I want; as petty and as irrelevant as I want — it’s my blog, my words, my writing.