Adult concept

As a child, my head was always inundated with stories. I discovered writing as a way to preserve and even multiply those thoughts. 

There was always a compulsive desire to lay a piece of my mind out for the world to see; to bellow my opinions out. 

Why don’t I write so often anymore? 

My head is blank. 

Not all the time. Thoughts race my head and scale altitudes that were presumably unattainable the previous day. Somewhere in the predicament of being unable to put these thoughts to ink, I struggle to face another

lurking thought ; “Will I never write anymore?” 

It is on this meandering fear that I blame my inability to write anymore. But also, as an adult  things have begun steering towards reality. Being construed as a person with a full grown brain and wholesome education, society has all rights to misconstrue your opinions and shove unsolicited two cents up your already insecure being. Am I scared of those two cents? 

Then, there is this underlying issue of having no uplifting thoughts to pen down. “I am not a melancholic writer”, I often say to myself with a reassuring chuckle. “But when was the last time I had a chipper thought?” There seem to be enough writers in this world and their immaculate descriptions of sorrow to relate to. I am not something the reading community is in need of.

But most of all, when I set my mind to write, a tide of excuses wash up my process, showing me how the words are right there struggling to break free. Therefore, I don’t write.

Wait, did I just ...