It’s been months since I’ve written anything. Even my journal has been feeling neglected lately. I don’t know why I’ve stopped writing, but I feel guilty about it every time I see my journal sitting on the dining room table while I lay sloth-like on the couch watching tv.
I write to let out mixed emotions. I think that putting them on a page helps me to sort them out. I write so I can remember moments. I write so I can leave a history of my life to future generations. I write so my brain doesn’t rot.
But I keep finding excuses to not write. I have nothing important to say. I left my journal downstairs. I’d rather read another chapter of my book. Barry needs to be walked. House is on TV.
I write when I feel like my life is in some sort of emotional deluge; when I am romantically confused, financially troubled, spiritually empty. But right now I feel neither of these, and the moments where I should have written my thoughts down are gone. To try an recreate those moments just to put pen to paper would come out fake and impersonal.
I hope to find the inspiration to write again. My soul depends on it.