Let's be honest with each other from the very beginning.. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. Less than 72 hours ago, I made the decision to shut down the blog I had written and poured my heart into for a little over four years.
I started feeling like my blog was lacking, and stopped feeling good about my writing in general. I noticed my writing becoming less and less authentic. It became clear to me that I was beginning to write for other people rather than for myself. It started to feel more like work than freedom, and I began to develop a sort of hostility towards the whole thing. The thing I've learned though, through being a blogger for four years and being a writer for a lot longer than that, is this: I owe it to myself to be honest.
So when blogging started feeling more like an obligation to me than a safe haven, I had to make a decision. I had to decide whether or not I would continue posting things I hadn't put my entire being into. And it wasn't that I didn't want to put my entire being into my writings, either. It just became an issue of me forgetting how to be honest. With myself, with anyone who read it, and with the world.
I'm not a do-it-halfway or only-do-parts-of-something type of person. I have to invest the entirety of my existence into something or not do it at all. When it became apparent to me that my writing was a vicious circle of me only putting half of what I had to offer into it and expecting optimal results, I knew I had to stop- and I knew I had to tell myself that that was acceptable.
I've never experienced emotional war quite like what I experienced in the hours before, during, and immediately after deleting the blog. I didn't know why. I didn't know how that had suddenly become even a thought. I didn't want it to happen. I didn't understand how something I had loved and grown through for so long had become the reason I found myself sitting on the floor of my bedroom, next to all my worn-out journals, crying and trying desperately to find solace somewhere within the notebook pages I had filled and never shared.
But all of that pain, confusion, and desperation for clarity.. it did nothing except inspire me to continue writing. That's when it hit me. Tear-stains in my journal made the colors of ink pen bleed so intensely that that's when it really hit me hard.
Writing is art. Words. Feelings. Thoughts. Everything.
Joy, pain, fear, confusion, sadness, anxiety, doubt, courage, love, hatred, excitement, and being genuinely lost.. it's all art.
Art, as it exists, is incredible. Unique, intense, and never perfect. And it makes you feel things. Art is created, and creation itself or the ability to create has all the purpose in the world. Even if that purpose isn't clear.
That's what it was that made me so hesitant to write authentically and honestly. I didn't know my purpose. I didn't feel like I knew anything.
As it turns out, not knowing anything is also knowing everything.
Last night, I was awake until 5 a.m. making some of the toughest decisions of my life. I questioned my being. I questioned what it was that made that one boy tell me he loved me just to tell me two weeks later that he had lost interest in me since. I asked myself why I had decided to be bold enough to go out for things and take chances that I knew were far beyond the person I am, or the person I at least thought I was. I watched and listened to the rain. I got a little bit too close to losing sight of my worth and control of my confidence.
I was just laying in bed thinking about everything, and that in itself was the riskiest thing I've ever done. Sobering, but risky.
The things I wrote, though, were so intoxicating and so raw. So real, and so honest.
And then this blog was born. At 5:02 a.m. on a Thursday morning, my tired heart and clouded mind knew exactly one thing.
I have to continue to create. I have to keep being an artist. Because art, honesty, a desire to grow and a willingness to be as human as I can be...
It all gives me a wild sense of purpose.
I started feeling like my blog was lacking, and stopped feeling good about my writing in general. I noticed my writing becoming less and less authentic. It became clear to me that I was beginning to write for other people rather than for myself. It started to feel more like work than freedom, and I began to develop a sort of hostility towards the whole thing. The thing I've learned though, through being a blogger for four years and being a writer for a lot longer than that, is this: I owe it to myself to be honest.
So when blogging started feeling more like an obligation to me than a safe haven, I had to make a decision. I had to decide whether or not I would continue posting things I hadn't put my entire being into. And it wasn't that I didn't want to put my entire being into my writings, either. It just became an issue of me forgetting how to be honest. With myself, with anyone who read it, and with the world.
I'm not a do-it-halfway or only-do-parts-of-something type of person. I have to invest the entirety of my existence into something or not do it at all. When it became apparent to me that my writing was a vicious circle of me only putting half of what I had to offer into it and expecting optimal results, I knew I had to stop- and I knew I had to tell myself that that was acceptable.
I've never experienced emotional war quite like what I experienced in the hours before, during, and immediately after deleting the blog. I didn't know why. I didn't know how that had suddenly become even a thought. I didn't want it to happen. I didn't understand how something I had loved and grown through for so long had become the reason I found myself sitting on the floor of my bedroom, next to all my worn-out journals, crying and trying desperately to find solace somewhere within the notebook pages I had filled and never shared.
But all of that pain, confusion, and desperation for clarity.. it did nothing except inspire me to continue writing. That's when it hit me. Tear-stains in my journal made the colors of ink pen bleed so intensely that that's when it really hit me hard.
Writing is art. Words. Feelings. Thoughts. Everything.
Joy, pain, fear, confusion, sadness, anxiety, doubt, courage, love, hatred, excitement, and being genuinely lost.. it's all art.
Art, as it exists, is incredible. Unique, intense, and never perfect. And it makes you feel things. Art is created, and creation itself or the ability to create has all the purpose in the world. Even if that purpose isn't clear.
That's what it was that made me so hesitant to write authentically and honestly. I didn't know my purpose. I didn't feel like I knew anything.
As it turns out, not knowing anything is also knowing everything.
Last night, I was awake until 5 a.m. making some of the toughest decisions of my life. I questioned my being. I questioned what it was that made that one boy tell me he loved me just to tell me two weeks later that he had lost interest in me since. I asked myself why I had decided to be bold enough to go out for things and take chances that I knew were far beyond the person I am, or the person I at least thought I was. I watched and listened to the rain. I got a little bit too close to losing sight of my worth and control of my confidence.
I was just laying in bed thinking about everything, and that in itself was the riskiest thing I've ever done. Sobering, but risky.
The things I wrote, though, were so intoxicating and so raw. So real, and so honest.
And then this blog was born. At 5:02 a.m. on a Thursday morning, my tired heart and clouded mind knew exactly one thing.
I have to continue to create. I have to keep being an artist. Because art, honesty, a desire to grow and a willingness to be as human as I can be...
It all gives me a wild sense of purpose.
Image Credit: Anonymous- Found on Twitter
In the prettiest gardens, there are weeds.
In the strongest people, there are stories of things that made them feel weak.
But in purpose, even if it is unclear, that's where there is everything.
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