I Expect More

Lately when I've read over things I've written, it feels inauthentic. Part of me is missing from the words coming from my fingertips and I really can't place the reason. This is the longest blog I've kept going, and I'm not sure why that is. I make a terrible writing-to-share writer.

I frustrate myself. I am reminded of what my writing used to have the power to convey and then I read soft words expressing little of the true emotion behind them. It's hard to complain about it--they're my words, why write them if they're not worth it? Strangely, I think they are worth it. I just can't figure out where my missing passion for writing has drizzled off to.

I remember filling a whole notebook in a week with crazy stories, poems, thoughts, notes, fantasies, and exposés. Now I'm lucky if I write a couple of random rants, thoughts, experiences, or discussions in a week.

My first thought on why this has happened is because my life was more interesting when I was in high school. I know that's not true. If not equal, I'd say my life is a lot more interesting now. Is that why I can't convey my thoughts? Am I too busy, too stretched, too stressed? I don't think so.

The sad truth is that going through college, I lost a lot of passion for sharing my thoughts with others. When everything is dissected and interpreted, so much of the emotion falls flat, lost to the world of academia.

So how do I erase the nagging voice in my head preventing me from going too far, opening myself for criticism, sharing too much, or being too fantastical and outlandish? I have no idea. There are so many things I stop myself from writing. I don't know the reason. For someone so concerned about being judged, you'd think I would have realized that kind of thing doesn't matter. Part of me just can't read that memo.