Hmm. I keep telling myself I need to write more but every
time I try to get in front of the computer my fingers somehow go through a mild
paralysis and my brain goes more than slightly blank. Blank in sense that there’s
a myriad of thoughts running through my mind and I don’t know which to focus on
except for that tiny little black hole in the middle sucking my ideas in.
One of the things I’m insecure about is my writing. Should I
write smarter? Use words that would make people say “woah. This chick knows
shit.” Should I write more towards a romanticized manner? Proliferate in the
idea of love everlasting? I don’t know. I don’t want to sound too smart in a
way that I seem overly pretentious. Honestly I’m just afraid another smartass
would point something out and it would force me to think of a really clever
comeback. Now. I don’t really know how write about love as well. It’s a
dauntingly beautiful topic that is reserved for drunk nights and lonely hours.
And though I may be lonely… I’m not drunk. Yet.
So. What? Where do I start? How do I get myself back to
writing again? I have so much I want to put into paper. Mainly because I have
this vivid idea that someone would stumble upon my compilation seventy
something years from now and decides to publish it, thinking that it’s a
national treasure. A gateway to history that would change the path of humankind
forever.
But then I realized I live in a time of Shake Weights,
Tinder, Fuckboys and Cross Fit. Meh. At least they’d all have a good laugh. So
yep. I guess this me saying I gotta write more. Like really write more. For the
sake of my sanity. And for some skill sharpening as well on the side. Who knows
one day I’d write a novel. If only I wasn’t on my phone too much… tsk. Damn,
Trish! Back at it again with your lazy ass excuses! Oh and if ever you’re
reading this seventy years from now, look “Damn, Daniel” up on your electronic
thingamajiggy. You’ll get it. Peace out, mother father!
