The day i started writing again was not the day i started writing again.
When i started writing again, it was for an english assignment, a poem of the week, a get-yourself-inspired type of deal, but it’s safe to say i never was because when you are writing under the constrictions of something that is calculable, something that can be turned into a number in a gradebook, you are not truly writing.
The day i started writing again was not the day i started writing again.
When i started writing again, i wrote with proper punctuation and read over my work thousands of times, praying that it would meet the approval of those who i didn’t really care about. When i started writing again, i didn’t write, i sang the songs of other people, and i pictured myself, inevitably, in front of a crowd going wild.
The day i started writing again was not the day i started writing again.
When i started writing again, it was a futile attempt to find something that had already been long lost. It was curiosity ebbing at my tactless skin, wondering if i summoned the only thing i was ever truly good at, i would get into harvard, yale, i would earn prestige, that was not the day i started writing again.
The day i started writing again, something was different.
It was the day i got angry. The day i felt cheated, the day i wanted to slip into an alternate reality, the day i found the rawest and most untouched version of myself where i wasn’t who i’d strived to turn out to be. It was the day my plans went to shit. It was the day i realized that everything i did for other people, and everything i did for myself, were two entirely different planes of intention.
It was the day i won my own award for the world’s best definition of a basket case, it was the day i didn’t punctuate my sentences or read through what i had wrote, it was the day when the rough draft of my life would become my only draft.
The day i really started writing again, i was writing for me.
When i started writing again, it was for an english assignment, a poem of the week, a get-yourself-inspired type of deal, but it’s safe to say i never was because when you are writing under the constrictions of something that is calculable, something that can be turned into a number in a gradebook, you are not truly writing.
The day i started writing again was not the day i started writing again.
When i started writing again, i wrote with proper punctuation and read over my work thousands of times, praying that it would meet the approval of those who i didn’t really care about. When i started writing again, i didn’t write, i sang the songs of other people, and i pictured myself, inevitably, in front of a crowd going wild.
The day i started writing again was not the day i started writing again.
When i started writing again, it was a futile attempt to find something that had already been long lost. It was curiosity ebbing at my tactless skin, wondering if i summoned the only thing i was ever truly good at, i would get into harvard, yale, i would earn prestige, that was not the day i started writing again.
The day i started writing again, something was different.
It was the day i got angry. The day i felt cheated, the day i wanted to slip into an alternate reality, the day i found the rawest and most untouched version of myself where i wasn’t who i’d strived to turn out to be. It was the day my plans went to shit. It was the day i realized that everything i did for other people, and everything i did for myself, were two entirely different planes of intention.
It was the day i won my own award for the world’s best definition of a basket case, it was the day i didn’t punctuate my sentences or read through what i had wrote, it was the day when the rough draft of my life would become my only draft.
The day i really started writing again, i was writing for me.
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gaia_lenox
Dec 23, 2019
This is such a beautiful and meaningful piece, it illustrates what it means to write as a writer. I love it!
Gaia Lenox