With a pulsating feeling of lack of creativity, I decided to a take trip down memory lane of my writings in this blog. I think it’s about 30 something of them. I started this blog in 2016 and through the years I have vomited bowels of my mind, not knowing if anyone was really paying attention. I think the most intriguing thing is seeing my perception of life fluctuate through temporary sporadic burst of emotions annually. Some moments taught independency, some echoed the feeling of being lost, others warned about friendships and the worst was, my ignorant rants about relationships. For years, this web journal was my therapy. Still is.
I wrote with the sentiment that whatever I was going through at that moment was the biggest roadblock in my life. I dramatized about heartbreaks, I referenced about sunken friendships and euphoric gratitude of new ones. I penned worries about my purpose and the affects of being in the spotlight. And to my knowledge, I really felt in those moments, there was a significant fluctuation of emotions attributed to foolish situations. Although I felt the emotion and recognize how serious they were at the time, it just seems weird to read it. It feels like I am reading another persons blog. I don’t see the same girl that were writing those words. I feel a disconnect. In some twisted way, I like it.
But here I am, 6 years later after starting this blog and I can only imagine.
I look back on these posts with a faint smile, and often times with my hands covering my face to cover up how hard I am cringing. I am fighting excessively, the urge to delete posts authored to undeserving people. I read them and cackle at how these people felt like my everything then and I couldn’t imagine life without them. Now I sit and take a shot in celebration of their absence. If only I knew then, life would be this peaceful without their presence, I would have, maybe, been happier. If I knew these friendships wouldn’t last, or these feelings will eventually fade, i could have been more aware and alert to the importance of my well being.
This is not to invalidate how I felt then, but I wish someone told me that these things or people wouldn’t matter in a few years. If I had an inkling of the healing of time, then I could have preserved so many tears. Maybe I wouldn’t have given myself such a hard time.
I miss writing. For years I have been so occupied with assimilating in the real world, that I forgot why I picked up the pen. I poetize because peace follows me through these pages that surfs through the crowd. I guess the person in these scripts is really me. In the world, I blend in, so often time I need to come here and awaken my consciousness that is kept tucked.
I think I am going to cling on to the gift these pages leave me, a little longer.
I don’t know if anyone ever sees/read these pieces of my mind. But if you do, hey.
deepwithindarkness 