When or if stumbling accidentally upon this piece of writing, one can easily detect my lack of “Blogger popularity.” It’s certainly no surprise to me: a mere handful of followers, close to zero comments and of course, the 3-month or so spaced-out posts. It may be hard to believe that, once upon a time (a year and a half to two years ago), I used to regularly blog – a much-needed weekly “out,” if you may.
The reasons of my ease of thought-flow and writing are much too complex and particular. They stem from a darker place of my past, which doesn’t always deserve much regard, other than the fact it’s… well, just my past. I vowed to myself that it has been put to rest completely and these days, looking back, I am thankful to have experienced and lived through it all. But it’s the root-dissecting process that, at times confusing in its complexity, is precisely the most essential part of understanding ourselves.
As I’ve learned to slowly yet steadily build a stronger case for myself, easing into my first serious and REAL relationship over the past year, my writing “outs” have slowly yet steadily took the backseat. The connection between the two might seem juvenile, but it was obvious to me and I knew this right away. In fact, I feared it. I feared the fact that I no longer felt pain tugging at my heart, my whole being immersed in a mix of self-pity, rage, melancholy, useless hope and desperate self-pleads and assurances. The comfort of words gave way to incredible poise and personal resiliency I would often doubt I possessed in the face of pain, heartbreak and disappointment. My words were my emotions, and although negative, they were a constant reminder of who I was inside – a constant bona fide stream of passion – raw and erratic, yet always pure and REAL.
Needless to say, it deeply frustrated me to think that what I believed being my passionate drive for writing had been nothing but a mere slingshot fire at a one-time high projectile velocity. Although I’ve unsuccessfully tried to sustain a level of consistency through other topics of writing, did I really need the strange motivation of heartbreak to coerce me to write? So deeper I dug. Where was I in the present moment? Passed the heartbreak and the pain, I found myself in the arms of a good man who had been, since day one, the most honorable man I have ever met. The vexing flare of heartbreak was gone and yes, I had found myself not knowing how to write about… good. About love, about the growth of it and the mutual, true sharing of it. I just knew how to write about the absence of it.
So in defense to the post’s title, I still consider myself a writer. I’ve always written about what I have known. I am not afraid anymore to continue doing so. My once predilection was just a simple state of being what I had sadly grown accustomed to. As I have tremendously grown, I’ve come to realize that my thoughts and emotions beautifully are merging, consolidating themselves into a stable faith, giving way to copious future writings, bearing an inhumane stance of motivation no more.
Here is where I end this “dry spell.”