I don’t really know how to write anymore.
I’m sure that’s something that a lot of writers have trouble with. And I guess I’m not any different.
But maybe in this case, I may be, just a little.
The issue with writing, for me, is that it only comes in a certain unhealthy state of mind. I write when I’m sad, angry, empty. Dead.
But usually, as the lakes grow warmer and the birds start chirping, I feel less of those things. My vision starts to focus; suddenly things don’t matter. School doesn’t matter. What people think of me doesn’t matter, or what people don’t think of me doesn’t matter. Family issues don’t matter. In a good way, though. The way where, you’re so confident in your skirt that you don’t care what other people think. Not the way that you don’t bother to check yourself in a mirror because you couldn’t care less about anything at all, and because you can’t stand the thought of the empty corpse you’ve become staring you back. I just like to walk in the rain, and smile at the squirrels, and help the old lady across the street pick up her garbage cans after a storm instead of ignoring her.
I don’t know why this happens, but quite literally, the sun comes out and the springtime rain washes everything away. And not only does it do that, it brings things back as well. I care about friends, making connections, having fun, being reckless. Being young.
And along with that shift, goes most of my inspiration to write. Sentences become awkward to type, my notebook hasn’t had a glimpse of my face in months, and the only type of writing I can muster is stringing empty words together in an attempt to sound prestigious. I’m not.
I like to exercise more than write. And that’s saying something. Instead of spending hours sat at my computer, typing until two in the morning each night, I’m going to bed at a decent hour. Running every second day, when I get home. Not stressing about homework. Wearing what I want because I like it, not because I don’t care enough about my existence to bother to wear anything.
I’m not sure it’s a good thing. I’m happier, more alive, more ready to plunge myself into the depth of humanity, and explore each beautiful coral reef it has to discover, instead of burying my body under piles of rotted ash and waiting for soot to seep through my empty eye sockets. But for some reason, my pen doesn’t commemorate the occasion. It sits and waits for my skeleton to take over once again, and then decides to pour out any small inch of a soul that it could possibly have left.
Sometimes, pain can be beautiful. But sometimes, pain is just painful and happiness is more beneficial in the long run.