A clearer understanding

                I suppose this blog is getting a little confusing with the constant switching between short stories and more essay like pieces, isn’t it? Maybe I should put a little warning in the titles? Or you could all just suck it up and deal with it. I kinda like that option, ngl.

                As I detailed, in a slightly fictionalized way, the lack of creativity and imagination in my writing was wearing me down. I was becoming more and more jaded with things, and, as I said, I was no longer seeing the beauty in the world. There were no more vibrant colours to excite my eyes, instead everything was dull and grey and pointless. Ever since I started making myself write more short fictions, I have been feeling more alive, and more engaged.

                For people who don’t write, this can be hard to understand, but writing isn’t just a way to make a living, or a way of life: it is life. Writing gives us (writers) meaning, it gives us reasons to wake up in the morning. Writing makes us feel good, and it helps us to feel better. You’ll hear a lot of writers talk about stress from writing, and while true, we also alleviate that stress by writing more! Sometimes, to deal with the stress from writing, all it takes is to write something else.

                That was my problem. My writing was stressing me out, but I wasn’t changing gears. I just kept grinding away, getting more and more worn out, until I got to the point where writing had become a chore and not something I enjoyed. The feeling of loss I felt at that revelation is nigh indescribable. One of the things I loved most in the world had suddenly become something that I did not want to do. So it became this exercise that I forced myself to do, day in day out, all the while growing more and more disillusioned with the whole system, and with myself.

                I was watching the world burn down in front of my eyes, and instead of getting water I stepped into the flames, thinking that I would be able to make a difference that way. As we all know, stepping into a flame only gets you burnt. I planted my flag in this war and thought I could win by fighting and not by guiding. Surely those masses would see the error of their ways through my glorious and inspiring words!

                What a fool I was.

                Instead of uniting people, all I did was give them another target. Soon people I was once respected and admired, wrongly, had me in their sights. The insults and slurs started pouring in, the threats of violence and the threats of death hidden in between.

                And all the more tired and disillusioned I became.

                My words became bitter and infused with a forced false sense of hope. My words became cutting, and, in becoming cutting, lost their edge. I lost my true focus and tried to write what I thought people wanted me to write, instead of writing what I needed to write.

                But what did I need to write?

                I needed to write my truth. I needed to create stories and parables that led people, and guided them to final goals. I needed to write things that didn’t just bash people over the head with truth, but showed the truth.

                This is not to say that the blunt posts are not relevant or important, they are! I only mean that I needed to expand back into what I used to write. Stories and tales were my home. Weaving threads together to create a tapestry that inspires is my greatest gift.

And I had abandoned it.

It took nearly destroying myself and my creativity to pick it back up.

Now that I have, I will fight to not let it go again.