To write again. Oh, to write again. What has happened to me? To us? To everyone? Didn't we all use to write? I know it is naive to think that we all did but I choose to believe we all started that way in some form at least. I remember how several of my teachers use to make us write in journals about whatever we wanted. It didn't matter what we wrote, just as long as we kept trying to write. I think this is where I learned to actually put my thoughts on paper. We wrote about dreams, relationships, anger, happiness, and waves. At least that's what I wrote about. We all had to do this, you remember right? I apologize, I am being naive again. Despite this matter, I toil constantly with an internal resentment towards myself for not writing more. It is pointless to spend time on all the obvious excuses, none of which are good enough. My dad writes about a poem a week and sends it to me. I try now and then to attempt my own poems but there is a lot to learn. With my nosey little pen deep in the ramblings of my journal I inconsistently attempt this type of work. My dark scribbles aren't anything worth a second read to anyone but they are valuable. They mean something to me. They are true thoughts that exist beyond my own consciousness. They exist because they exist outside me, confirming existence in a way to no one but me. It feels good to write again.
