Thursday, December 23, 2010

At the end.

More and more I feel I'm losing touch with my writing. It's been a slow fade, over the last year or so, and a quite unfortunate one at that.

Writing has always been my hiding place, one where I was never pressured out of using rhetoric and metaphors and irony. Constantly I find myself being urged by others to be more "straightforward." Time and time I've been burdened by the heavy words of others stating how I "mislead." This part of my life I try to keep seperate from my writing altogether. It's an ugly component, greedy and grotesque and one that I would gladly do without. But writing, not always my own, in and of itself, is a beautiful thing. It's gritty and unforgiving and raw. In all of this, it is beautiful.

I know that I need to write more, but I feel as if I force myself to then I will resent it, the thing I've always loved most. This is why I know I can never write as a career.

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