I’ve been reading some older posts that I don’t completely remember writing… like my brain has lost it’s corollary effect and no longer intrinsically recognizes the writing as my own, even though I understand on an intellectual level that it is my writing.

My quite old writing, I hate no matter how much time has passed.  It was just poor writing and it’s hard for me to be forgiving of my beginner self.

But my few months old writing I can almost forget was mine, almost read with fresh eyes, and almost appreciate.

Which… is good… because I am consistently struck by confusion over why anyone would want to read what I write here…

Maybe my friends enjoy getting to know me better because… they’re my friends.  Sir uses it as a tool for understanding what’s going through my head at a given time.  But strangers?  Especially the strangers that keep coming back.  I can’t fathom what would draw them to this… to me… to reading my little wisps and drabbles and dramas.

So then when I read something a little older and I can realize that I have… voice… that I have style, that there is something compelling in some of my writing… when I can recognize that maybe, almost, there’s something about my writing sometimes that could draw people, even strangers.

It’s an odd feeling.

I’m not sure what to do with it.

I’ve been feeling both compelled to and trapped by writing lately.  It is a daily anxiety battle to try to write and lately I’ve been losing the battle.

I wish… I could just write… without this… knife between my ribs every day of my life.

I wish I could just write.

But my brain isn’t rational and no matter how much I appreciate my own writing when I forget that its mine… I can’t apply that to actually writing today, now, in this moment.

I miss writing.

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