Or not...

Writing about old relationships, yea, I guess that idea didn't stick with me. Truth is these days no ideas stick with me. I know I don't want to write for anyone else but me, but for some reason my brain is still having trouble letting go of the idea that my content has to somehow be consumable, palatable, interesting enough to entertain some invisible audience that I don't even have.

I have been writing since I was pretty young. I think the first real journal I started was in 9th or 10th grade. I also have a history of writing, then a few years later going back and reading certain things, and feeling that I've changed so much or I didn't recognize that part of me that I would destroy the writings. At this point I think I know I was destroying it because I didn't like what I saw. Not necessarily because I had changed or overcome some of the struggles or insecurities or whatever. But because when I bared my soul on paper, I didn't like what I saw. I was embarrassed about being vulnerable. Embarrassed about being seen at all really.

I have become acutely aware of a life long inner conflict. I desperately want to be seen, noticed, heard...and am in turn compelled to hide, stay small, and go unnoticed. Somehow I am deeply afraid of what I seem to want the most. It's not as simple as the cliched fear of success. Or is it? I suppose we all define success on our own terms. I mean, I have a good job, my own house, nice things, people like me. But so what.

Pick what you love, what makes you feel joy, take one small step towards a goal each day, break it down, just keep moving...I know all that advice. Right now I have no idea what direction to go. I'm having trouble even remembering what feeling passionate about something feels like. I also don't know if I ever chose anything just for me. I always wanted someone else to be proud, or to notice, or be impressed. Maybe not everything. But a lot of things.

I would like to create something. I'm just not sure what that is right now.