Ruminating Writing

It’s weird to realize I’ve had my physical journal for around three years now.  I bought it when I first came to college.  And yet it’s not even halfway full.  It’s not like I haven’t been writing.  I’ve done plenty of that.  I just mostly type on my MacBook.  I guess I just have so much to say that if I were to write it all down by hand, I’d develop carpal tunnel for sure.  It’s just easier to simply type everything out.  But I still genuinely enjoy writing by hand.  Plus, it’s a lot more convenient to carry about my small, physical journal than it is my MacBook when I’m struck with inspiration.  Mostly, I guess the physical journal is more for note taking, for jotting down ideas when a great line pops into my head.  It wasn’t meant to be used to write entire pieces of writing, although I have done that on occasion.  I’ve written entire poems and stories, wholly and unchanged before in the physical journal.  I suppose it just all depends on how inspired and passionate I am about what I’m talking about.  I can be moved to write from one line to four pages at a time. 

But I’m not inspired and passionate anymore.

Maybe I’m too distracted?  Or perhaps I’ve purged all of that passion already?  Maybe there’s nothing left to bring up and out?  I’m sure there is (at least I hope so) but there must be something blocking my brain.  I haven’t written any good quality poetry or reflections lately and it saddens me.  I look back on old poems and essays and it’s like reading a stranger’s words.  I don’t remember writing a lot of them, almost like someone took over my hand, as if I was being possessed by the words I was writing.  Sometimes I read some of my old work and I impress myself.  Wow, how did I come up with that?  How was I able to make the words flow?  And the most important question is how can I do that again?  I haven’t impressed myself lately.  Sometimes I feel like I’ve lost it but how can I have lost it when I continually use it?  They say “If you don’t use it, you’ll lose it” but I write daily.  It’s frustrating and sometimes I feel like God has given me talent by inches.  He holds an invisible string that is slacked and stiffened according to His mood, or perhaps, my work.  It’s not like I’m blaming God for my sudden slump but since I believe talent is a gift from God, I feel like He must have a hand in my hampered abilities.  Perhaps I haven’t paid Him back in praise and now He’s repossessing the vehicle for my emotional expression?  No, I’m sure it’s not God.  He has plenty of talent to toss around and He has given us the free will to use (or abuse) that talent how we see fit.  It’s just me.  I’m sure it’s just people, places, and my own putridness that help to conspire against any progression of talent.

And it’s not like I expect everything I write to be a masterpiece but I just wish my writing was consistently good, that there was always a nugget of knowledge embedded in the zombie metaphors and blood spattered similes.  I want my writing to have purpose.  What good is it to write pretty poetry that exemplifies empty emotions?  What good is it to write a fancy story that doesn’t promote passion? 

I am not unique.  I do not see things in a totally original way but I do see things quite differently than others and I try to show that through my writing.  ‘Cause I think the way I see things requires and open mind and that’s really all I’m asking for, for my writing to open up people’s minds, to get them to think just a bit harder because if they think harder, hopefully, they’ll think smarter and thinking smarter will lead to more understanding which will lead to less fear which will lead to less hate.  And less hate will open up a whole new world for all of us.