I’m tired of writing about transition. I’m tired of writing about the work-life shuffle. I’m tired of writing about lack of inspiration, and I’m beyond tired of writing about me… which leads to mornings like today’s when I stare at my computer screen and censor my intuition comatose.
I’ve blogged on and off since 2002 (and before that, many of my journal entries found their way into friends’ inboxes) because of a need, every bit as basic as hunger, to experience my world and community through words. Writing for me is half instinct and half response, and there is a custom flavor of satisfaction reserved for distilling my thoughts into language. You’ve savored some form of it too, yes?
However, I have no love for the spotlight, and I wish that authenticity would let me focus on someone else. I would happily post on topics of others’ choosing if I could face the splintery aftermath of forcing wooden words through heart channels. If it were in any way possible, I would cheerfully disassociate from my own cerebrum and find someone more interesting [diverse/confident/fashionable/fill in the ______] to be.
But you already know this, of course… and remembering that you’ve already read a thousand variations on this theme leads to afternoons like this when I give up on censoring and simply close my computer screen altogether.