Very nearly a year. I’m surprised every time when I read through things I’ve written; torn scraps of paper with jotted down thoughts, old journals, online blogs discarded in the unending wastebin of the tubes. I can’t help but compare myself to the person I was when I wrote those things. Do they still make sense? Why do I cringe when reading some of them? Do they still evoke the same feeling that urged my to let it go?
I’ve been told, yet again, I need to write. I should write, I mean. I know I need to. It’s not an easy process and I want to balk every time whatever it is inside of me that moves me urges my physical body to sit down and let it all go. Like a teenager being told to do the dishes or take out the trash (do kids even have chores today anymore?).
I went to the Richmond Arts in the Park yesterday. Over 450 artists and craftsmen laid out haphazardly in Byrd Park. Most weren’t that original, but there were definitely a few who caught my eye and sparked to life my imagination. It was at once inspiring and frustrating. Inspiring because I have this urge to create something constantly and frustrating because I have no money to do so. I’m so tired of living paycheck to paycheck, and I know it could be worse. That always sounds disingenuous, but is it really so wrong to want better for myself when there are others much more worse off than I am? It doesn’t stop me from caring and wanting better for other people.
I’m in no place (or mood) to be writing right now.
