I find it hard to write…
Perhaps when life gets busy and hectic, the things that we value the most are the first to go.
A deadline I've given myself has become nothing more than a suggestion that my schedule excuses at its earliest convenience.
A doorway to fulfillment, open wide for me to explore – closed on my own volition time and time again.
An apoplectic demeanor that I carry around, burdening those close to me with because I can't make up my mind, sit, and write.
I find it hard to ideate…
I second-guess myself into a state of absence from my own creativity.
"Where did it all go?"
"I was doing so well..."
I'm hard on myself because I care. That's what I tell myself. I care about myself. I care about others. I care about my ideas getting to others.
If I care, then why is it hard to pull the trigger?
If I care, why does the first foot forward result in soporific tendencies?
I find it hard to act…
I'm a creative mind… I'm an achiever… I'm an accomplisher...
I'm a fraud. I'm a character. I'm a good guesser.
It should be easy to create these things shouldn't it? Shouldn’t it should be easy to sit and write these installments?
It's not.
Did it used to be?
A feeling creeps up on me like this is my season of re-learning how to make art. Is what I made in the past even considered art?
Are my values being shifted for better or for worse?
What’s worse than not making?
Surely these writings will teach me how to become reacquainted with my own ideas again.
All because…
I find it hard to write.
