“Just freaking write,” I tell myself, as if it’s as easy as ripping paper. Just write, and something will come to you. Something inspirational. Something just erratic enough to be gold. Put your fingers to the keys—we’re done with paper for the moment—and just. freaking. write.
At times like these, I remember days when words flowed endlessly, endlessly like wildfires in summer. Writing was more than an escape, more than an afterthought. It was life. I’d have a thought and, without hesitation, open my computer, and words would pour and pour out, spill and spill. Badly strung together words. But words, nonetheless. Words, and stories.
I miss those days.
I often wonder how I strayed from that light. Was there a single, sudden cause, or was it a slow descent into nothingness? Was I like a frog, being boiled in increments? I’d like to think there was one cause, because dealing with the aftermath would be easier, a simple mathematical equation.
Is this what adulthood is like? Becoming too busy for the things I love, acknowledging that they are slipping away, bathing in the regret, yet failing to do anything lasting about it? If so, can I reverse time? Can I return to my endless days? Well, I know that I can’t, but at least, I’d like to think about it. It makes it sadder, though, I know it does, thinking like that, but I can’t help it.
Just. Write. As if it’s so easy.