Fam I’m tweaking out astronomically oh my God I want so desperately to write again BUT I CAN NEVER FVCKING CONCENTRATE LONG ENOUGH TO FINISH WHAT I START. I read everyone else’s fanfictions and I ache at the thought that I have the ABILITY to follow in their footsteps but not the will. Whenever I read actual books, my entire chest hardens into obsidian; the hope of possible futures where I become a published author glint off the mineral faces in darts of light, materialising yet unpenetrating, tantalisingly out of reach. I want to write. I want to show the world that I can write. I want to be a safe space and a mystical haven and an exciting new adventure in a magical realm, for myself and for others, but I’ve been entirely trapped within my own procrastination ever since I started high school. Maybe that’s just what happens when you grow up: you sharpen your writing ability but your desire and motivation dwindle over the years until the stores are depleted and running on fumes. Maybe the trick is to keep writing in spite of it.
It’s a strange kind of feeling. Almost like hiraeth. Every bone in my body pulls to the surface in incredible aching, my lungs stained with longing. It’s like I’m baptised in mourning, submerged in grief over what is only dead because it is not yet alive.
