I have been unable to write anything for a couple of days and it’s not like things have not happened or that my perception has not changed but just that, I am unable to write. I have questioned myself as to why my pen would not produce words reflecting my inner confusions and my outer disturbances. I don’t know why my subconscious has stopped responding to the scraping sound of my pen on paper.
I cannot figure out why I can’t write but I do know many people who can. I know people who can create a new web of a universe in which there would be no confusions and would make perfect sense. I also know people who can tell stories in the most exquisite ways and nothing I write could ever be as well-etched as their characters are. I know people who can develop plots without knowing the ending and who can create opinions in a matter of seconds. I cannot write because I know I cannot write too well.
My heart bleeds for my miserable existence of lack of enough thoughts, ideas and even vocabulary to express myself. I cannot believe that the one career or the one thing I have ever wanted to know cannot be perfected in any way by me. I am not a writer nor an opinionated person. I am simple in thoughts, even though they are always a web of delusions, but they do exist. I cannot put them wisely into words though because they are not wise themselves.
I can’t even admit to the rest of the world that I am a lousy writer, though by writing this particular blog entry I pretty much am pronouncing it to the world of internet but seriously who in the world would ever read the stuff I write. I mean I am not a good writer. Sadly, I have always wanted to be a writer.
I always thought that words were the closest thing to me. I can express myself through words, whether prose or poem I have only been able to competent enough to be able to write. I have never had an article published or no one has really ever read what I have written because quite honestly my writing is boring. I like my own writing only because it my voice. I am not a narcissist. I just can’t criticize my writing because like it comes from this place really deep in my heart.
So like I was saying, I can’t write. I have two incomplete drafts on this blog which I don’t know if I would publish because I don’t know if they would ever be complete. We all have the power of language because all cultures have their specific tongues. I don’t think we all use it well though because not everyone writes. If all seven billion people would start voicing their opinions in any language whatsoever I am not sure there is enough databases to store their ideas.
Anyways, my point being that I can’t write is not my inability of make senses but rather to think about any particular topic enough to come up with a few hundred words worth of writing. I am quite sure that if I started writing a story I would fail but maybe I should start. I have never tried it before I might as well give a real story a chance. I don’t have any story in my right now but maybe suddenly something might just occur to me.