3/19/24 – 10:33 PM
I miss the days after I moved to Houston when I would take my Focalin and journal next to Buffalo Bayou. I felt so clever and full of curiosity. Everything was a fascinating puzzle to solve and play with. Even if my words were dark or depressed, it still felt good to get them out creatively. Each outing would bring me proud or inspired energy that despite everything, at least my writing was worthwhile. I had fresh views and awesome alliterations that actively augmented into astonishing poetry. (That felt very forced).
As of late, my journaling has felt stagnant and lackluster. Perhaps I need to venture outside like before to find my creative energy. That always did make a world of difference. Sitting on my bed never provided me with inspiration, save for commenting on the tick of the clock or the hum of the A/C.
I had more patience with my muse back then. I wouldn’t touch pen to paper before I had fully plotted out what to say and how. I would sit and wait contently for the right words and sounds. Now a days I grow frustrated so quickly when I come to a loss of words. My self-view and self-confidence so fragile and destroyed I can’t see the good in anything I touch. I want to be that kid who believed in things with all his heart. The kid who thought one day he would get his act together and make a difference in the world.
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