Coming home is what I would call it.
A few months ago, I fell out of the habit of writing. I have had writers’ block for the kind of writing I want to do for a while now (read: since 2015), but where I quit fiction, I began blogging. Through this humble space I created for myself online, I wrote.
I wrote to fill the void that a lack of creativity creates in you. I wrote to make myself feel less sad. I wrote to cope with my life better. And it worked. Beautifully. I came to adore this blog. I put in time, effort, energy. I did the kind of editing I’m not sure I can do now, to make it look the way it looks! And I still love how it looks! That almost never happens. I’m almost never satisfied.
But a few months ago, or over a year ago, I completely lost touch with writing. I stopped opening the WordPress app. I stopped checking views, stopped checking notifications. Earlier, I would write drafts here and there, but then? Reading what I had written and published brought me a great deal of pain.
I was going through a trying phase in life. I had been going through one when I started this blog, and I’m going through one now, that I’m attempting to do this all over again. It seems to me that there is an abundance of those.
The point is, that I stopped writing.
Writing, of any kind, heals me. Did heal me. Made me feel like I had something to do, something to contribute. Lately, I feel like I have the feelings, the emotions, the story; but I can’t say them. I can’t voice them, not in my head, not out loud, not in the written word.
Stopping the one thing that brought me joy when none other did has been painful. It got so painful, that when I got my new phone earlier this year, I didn’t bother reinstalling this app. What was the point? I already suffer enough. Don’t need to be reminded of what was.
But in there lies the catch. People who followed me at the very beginning are no longer here. They’ve moved on, found better things to occupy their time with. Or maybe, they gave up, much like I did. But these are the people who know what I wrote about. Who perhaps understood what the essence of my posts was, what the name of my site meant, what I tried to do for myself in a way that I couldn’t otherwise.
I have nothing but newer, more mature words for people who’re going to read this now. You might not know how I began. Or how I vanished. All you’ll have is now. All I have is now. But the name of this site still means the same as it did in 2015. The essence remains the same.
My sadness exists, and it makes itself known in a way that confuses the shit out of me. It makes no sense, but it still makes all the sense in the world. It is all wrong, but it is so right.
I need to start writing again, in a way that makes me feel whole again. And that is what this is about. Writing. Healing.
Love always,
Sky.
Paradoxical Sadness. 