I stopped blogging. I really can’t say this or that caused it. There are so many random reasons. I think love for writing died a bit. Not a bit. it almost totally died. There are cobwebs over my blog now. I nearly don’t know how this blogging thing work anymore. Admittedly, I have been lazy too. There is no reason why one shouldn’t write. Citing busyness as an excuse shouldn’t also be. I think what may have affected me are worries that later choked the zeal to write. Now these worries are many. Paramount among them is the worry for cash. You know what I mean nah? Unpaid for writing/blogging doesn’t foot any bill. It only serves one thing, you. Your emotions are fed and tension soothed, dazall. The others are just worries of various nuanced things; things that are often personal to share. Recently, I envied the idea of being an anonymous blogger. There are things you really cannot say with your real identity known. You don’t know who is reading. And the shares over the web could suddenly make it a devastating step.
Not being able to freely share what constantly nibbled at my soul, blogging then became ordinary. I felt a bit like a fraud too. You know that awkward feeling you have when you’re trying too hard to impress, when things do not naturally come to you? That feeling threatened me. I did some blogging though before I finally stopped. But they just weren’t fluid. I stopped blogging for many listless random reasons, money was chief of all. Bills are to be paid, not written about. As one grows older and realities begin shutting in on one, priorities are made. And I’m sorry, writing didn’t make my list of the must-do. Following that I asked myself these: does money have to be an incentive for what one loves? Does time also have to be a factor? In the face of dire needs, I muddled up my sincere response to those and pursued survival. I love writing. I shouldn’t wait for any financial incentive to write. Time should be damned. Those are ideal answers I should have had. But really, life is never ideal.
I want to write again. Writing makes me normal somehow. It is a part (of me, of life) I miss. Not in a spiritual way (sorry, I don’t do the writing is a spiritual thing. I don’t understand that. If writing is so so spiritual does it mean if you don’t write, you will die? Plsssss…). I see writing as a calmer. You are tensed. You type the riots out and suddenly, sooths…. Writing is therapeutic that way. So, this was what I told myself before blogging this: I will write. I will write everything. I will disclose a lot. I will publicise my personal space. I will take stupid risks with writing.
It is through those I could keep at writing.
I’m here now. This blogging still seems awkward a bit anyway after a long lull.
But I’ll return.