I’m No Writer, But I Write

I’m not going to sleep without writing. I just said this to myself right now, after not having a clue what to write about. Call it writers block. I’m call it, I’m not meant to be a writer. Which is why I called it quits on the blog. But it seems that the art or spirit of writing is not done with me yet. For two years, writing has been like therapy to me. It’s been the only place where I can put my emotions and expressions in order with out mumbling, uming, stuttering, and pausing in between thoughts like I do in person. When I’m angry and frustrated, writing is my go to place. I just don’t know why I don’t use it as often. I’m remembering now. It empowers me. I feel control. I’m creating something. No one can stop me. If I want a mountain to appear in your head. There it is. A powerful mountain on the horizon underneath the purple blue skies created by a majestic sun set. There it is again. Sounds a lot like the Paramount Pictures logo to me.  Anyways, I’m no novelist. I suck at details. But I’ll tell you what I’m getting good at it. It’s being self-aware. Aware of my true strengths and weakness. Why lie to myself? Why trick myself? Knowing who I am and what I can do is far more important than a label. I can do this. I can finish this post. It’s another one in the can. I’m proud of myself. Not to have to written, but have vented. To admit what I am not. To admit what writing does to me and why I need it.

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