Your skin and bones

Coldplay – Yellow

Writing used to be like breathing. Easy. Words form in my mind like pieces of a puzzle coming together. Seamlessly, smooth. Now that I am in my twenties, writing is nowhere near easy as it was years ago. Thoughts are unwritten, eventually forgotten. When written – words feel empty. Cliché as it sounds, it is not as easy as it used to be.

Perhaps it is because life happened. I grew up, and life is no longer just about me and studying and friends and getting good grades – and all I wrote back then was of life, or what I thought life was. Life was never easy to begin with,  but as we grow it gets harder. And reality hits us, like a slap in the face. Like a punch in the stomach. And we groan at the pain it inflicts upon us.

“What’s next?” questions endlessly provoking my peace of mind. Life’s pressures adding in onto my already high level of anxiety. And I – am yearning, craving for an escape.

To be free from life’s pressures.

And also maybe it is because I have grown to be a bit of a perfectionist. Like whatever I do is never enough. Whatever I write, whatever I make, is never good enough. I keep looking for flaws, trying to perfect them and not embracing them like I should.

Deleting them.

Excuses. I can write if I set my mind to it.

So let’s try this again. Long, deep breaths.

Hi.

Until next time.

F.

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