I used to fancy myself a poet. Then I read a series of poems by Susan Musgrave and realized how naïve I was to believe such a thing. So I stuck with writing, and fancied myself a writer, until I read Aurora’s words, mysterious and resonating, still bitter from the breakup in January.
A while ago, it felt like I ran out of things to say. Now I realize that it’s not a lack of subject matter, but a lack of conviction.
Even as recent as January, Dave Seah, prolific creator of the Printable CEO, Procrastinator’s Clock, and fellow 9ruler, said that I wrote with “literate-yet-conversational intensity, the kind of writing that sounds good when spoken aloud”. Now my entries are dry and technical, devoid of the intensity I used to feel, and I fear that it’s a reflection of myself.
Maybe this is why I’m so quick to embrace my moods and emotions. They let me write the way I used to, with the lyrical quality and style I once enjoyed.
So I sit here, with the lights out and Leonard Cohen on, the early folk stuff before he went synth in the 80s, songs of love and hate, windows open to the night, trying to recapture the passion that drove me to write when I started this blog.
I’m not a writer. I can’t write.
I’m simply a thinker, with the need to express himself.