Now, as I recall the carefully crafted spiel, the one I share when I'm asked why this blog has become dormant, I can’t come up with much. I haven't written on here since October 3rd, and the other posts within the past six months have been sparse and, quite frankly, shallow. This post has been on the tip of my fingers, but begrudgingly and infuriatingly so, the words haven't wanted out.
Holding onto the edge of the playground slide, my thoughts and stories have squandered all energy on fighting gravity pulling them down, wanting to fling them out onto the mulch below. It would be easier to just let go, enjoy the hilarity of static cling in my hair and continue romping around (sorry, playground analogy over). But I don’t know where to start.
I suppose I’ve changed. Not wanting to be inconsistent, I kept the same voice that I’ve used since I was a freshman in college. Sporadically, I’d mention how I felt like I was slipping. I was losing a fight with my insecurities in being authentic, and I eventually threw my hands up.
I didn't want the mask I’ve donned, the one depicting life through my blog-filter — a life that is simple, unobtrusive, quaint, etc. — to fit my face.
It started to catch up with me the other night at a small gathering for our newly-doored apartment (yes, that means Mag and I have lived five months with a haphazardly hung curtain between our bedrooms). Sarah, a new friend, acknowledged my blog from across the room. I cringed. She said she not only enjoyed reading it, but it inspired her to start her own. And that was all it took to realize this self-doubt is silly. I must rethink and reconcile.
What am I doing? Who the hell cares? I just need to do what I do, which is write. Besides, I have some stories to fill you all in on.