Hi strangers.

I know, I know. I fell off again.

That’s the thing though. It’s never intentional and I know I told myself I would stick to a Sunday writing schedule this year, but some weeks, a blog post just isn’t in the cards. If I’m going through a rough patch or I legitimately don’t have words to share, I would rather wait until my thoughts are clear.

On the other hand, writing is something I think about all week. I build it up to be this huge task to complete when in reality, all I need to do is show up to the page and see what happens.

I’ve heard many writers touch on this problem before. We lack creativity so in turn, we abandon our projects in hopes of finding that creative edge somewhere ‘out there’ when all we’re really doing is procrastinating something that actually makes us very happy.

We believe writing needs to be this beautiful work of art every single time, so when life hits a low point or inspiration is nowhere to be found, our craft feels silly. There’s nothing to share, we say. Nothing to write. I legitimately started this post saying those same things and while I don’t doubt that I need a breather at times, I do realize my lack of posts has more to do with not feeling like I have anything to share.

 

2018 has been quite a different year in comparison to my past two of writing.

 

You see, I used to spend most of my time in solitude.

When I moved out of my hometown, I essentially had to start over socially. While I found friendships in my past job, not many of them stuck. I never felt truly connected to the people I was around.

I went out for the occasional dinner or round of drinks, but that always took a lot out of me. My mind was fixed on completing the same routines every single day and most of the time, social functions didn’t coincide with that.

 

I never wanted to be out late because I had a certain time I wanted to be in bed.

I immediately felt a need to go home after being at work all day, anything else felt exhausting.

I thought I had to write and read every single day or I wasn’t doing enough creatively. 

I couldn’t eat any food besides the groceries I bought because my eating disorder thoughts were still very much alive. Those dinners I would occasionally attend bred nothing but anxiety within me.

Staying the night anywhere but home also became nerve-wracking because I wasn’t surrounded by  my own things. I felt out-of-place. It was equivalent to staying the night at a friend’s growing up and wishing you could call your mom to come pick you up. Yet, I was older. The feeling of needing to be at home all the time felt juvenile.

 

I look around at people I used to aspire to be one year ago. The people who support constant productivity and set schedules and fuck, I would never wish that upon anyone anymore.

That life drained me.

I researched and taught myself all of the ways to be the ‘perfect’ human being whilst never acting on any of it.

This year, I believe I’ve only read two books all the way through. In 2016, I read about thirty.

I don’t force myself to perform routines or habits that don’t feel authentic in that moment. I used to believe I couldn’t start my day off with texting anyone or be on my phone before bed. I saw my phone as ‘bad’ and reading/writing + shutting myself out from others as good.

I never watched television or movies.

I had a hard time finding any sort of style of my own because I was so caught up in what clothes/things were right and which were wrong. Now, I look around my room and it feels real to me. There’s grey walls and blue string lights and artwork and candles and everything under the sun that I felt called to.

When I first moved here, my room was white, white, white. The furniture, the bedding, the walls, everything. It was bland as hell because I was bland as an individual. I didn’t know who I was.

Thing is, I still don’t know who I am. All I know is who I am right now.

That’s the beauty of it.

 

I’ve come to realize that life isn’t about figuring out how to get it all right, but what you do with every single day. That sounds corny as hell, but everything has felt so much simpler since this concept has actually hit me.

 

I wake up every day not knowing what to expect.

I don’t worry about the future anymore. I have full faith that I’m being taken care of. Even in my darkest moments, everything feels light because I know those moments are only temporary. They’re teaching me something I’m not yet aware of.

On the other hand, I wish I wrote more than I do. I know how refreshing it feels every time I show up to the page.

I’ve been experiencing life more these past few months. I’ve been out. I’ve made friends. I feel more relaxed about everything in general, but I do know I want to find some consistency on here again.

It sounds simple. Just write, Kim.

It probably is that simple, but for some reason, it feels hard.

I don’t like forcing myself through something unless I truly want to do it. Even right now, I did want to write today, but I’m not feeling super inspired. I was hoping inspiration would strike as I wrote, but all I feel is like I’m repeating the same things I’ve told you all before.

My writing has turned vague because my life no longer involves just me. It involves other people and experiences I’m reluctant to talk about on here. A lot of my innermost thoughts have found themselves in my personal journals because I can only share so much on a public forum.

 

It’s not that I’ve fallen out of love with writing. It’s more so I’ve lost a spark in what I want to share on here.

 

I love sharing my experiences, but when it comes to events I can’t share, I feel a roadblock. I don’t know what to say. I feel inauthentic writing to an audience that doesn’t know every side of me.

I don’t want to continue repeating the same old truths when I’ve grown far beyond them.

I’ve spent less time learning this year and more so implementing all those lessons I’ve learned since 2016. By implementing rather than searching for more answers, life has finally become the oasis I wanted it to be all along.

It’s become something my sixteen year old self dreamed of – a life where nothing really matters but my happiness and that’s 100% okay.

I’m going to find a way to improve my writing on here. I’m tired of feeling like a broken record.

It’s funny that now that life is going better that I can’t find the words to say. I guess that’s why some of the most prolific writers experienced mountains of pain throughout their lives. It kept them on the page.

I don’t know if I’ll be back next Sunday but trust that I’m trying. I have not forgotten you all. I’ve forgotten my purpose for writing.

I want to find that purpose again. I don’t know when or how that will happen, but I know I need a new ‘why’ when it comes to these posts.

My ‘why’ used to be for therapeutic reasons and to help others feel understood. I’d share my past experiences in hopes of reaching out to people who might have experienced the same thing.

Thing is, I’ve spent well over a year going over every little event that shaped me in to the person I am. I’ve grown tired of reliving my past experiences. Yes, they happened, and yes, they shaped me. I know this. I’ve been known this.

 

It’s gotten to a point where a lot of talking about the past just feels like dwelling and playing victim.

 

I’ve let myself feel out all the ways I felt mistreated growing up. I’ve recognized how the family I was born in to shaped the personality and struggles I face today.

It’s been an over and over reel in my head.

If I get triggered by something and it relates to the past, I feel comfortable diving back in then.

However, a lot of my writing as of late feels like repeating lessons I learned a long time ago. I’m ready to let those go and open myself up to what the present has for me.

 

I want to share new material, new experiences.

I want to be excited to show up to write again.

 

So, as of now, I’m on a quest to find that new purpose.

A new zest for writing that matches my new zest for life.

The pieces may not come together for a while, but I know they’ll assemble when they’re meant to.

Until then, I’m living out exactly what I strived for this year – a life of doing what feels good, moment to moment.

It’s only from there that I know I’ll find my way.