november, vi.

I used to be able to do this. Write simply and without restraints. I no longer can. There are stories brimming inside me, waiting to be put on paper. I am not sure what stops me. I am not sure why I am afraid. So if the words are ugly? What if it didn’t make sense in the beginning at all? The thing is to start.

Because of the way I have constructed in my head right now, I am not entirely sure I am holding up to the truth. Maybe it was all different. Maybe I’ve made it all sound nicer and better because I am afraid of what the truth was. That I knew all along but betrayed myself and still went through with it. I digress.

I am disrespecting myself by not writing. My own life. I started a series of short stories at the beginning of the year and I never finished it. There was too much London in it, too much of everything. I never completed the B&B story. I have never actually written anything at all and yet it is still all there waiting to be finished. It’s been eight years since I wrote the 2011 piece. All those pages of my life back then. How I used to live. Maybe it wasn’t all right, but my words actually used to spark an emotion.

What do I have now? Only this.