I deeply miss scribbling in my Notes app or in my journal about the softness of mornings. I miss taking the extra minute to taste the crispness of night, the crinkles of laughter I share with my friends when we’re out, laughing too loudly for our own good. I miss taking the time to reflect in writing, rather than the elegant scribbling that happens in my mind alone.
I wonder how this happened- where did the time ago? I don’t know if I feel shame(?) or if I even feeling anything towards having not written practically anything towards the middle of the year. This os what happened: this is me. My brain shifts into survival mode and amid the coronavirus and lockdowns in particular that now may seem like a faint memory, my reflecting in writing seems to fade. Not because I don’t have thoughts or emotions that need to be vomited onto paper. Not because I don’t consider writing a part of me (Debatable: writers write, non-writing writers are called…? Fill in the blank at your own risk). This is a brain dump of sorts. Why have I stopped writing?
Was is because I took on a research position and all I do is read, write and analyze? Was it because I lack inspiration? (This I’d argue because I found much artistic stimulation from music and even photography since I’ve put down the pen.) Drowning in my work and social life. Was it because I am trying to explore, and my ruminating brain voice is afraid of writing because writing forces you to frame the lingering truth?
Whatever the reason, I have been barely writing these rambles, which are my favorite sorts of pieces. I have so much to say add I hope you are patient enough to listen.