There was a time, some time ago, when I would write naturally and nonstop. I had thoughts, and I had philosophy. As long as I can remember, for most of that time, I never imagined my words as song lyrics. They were just thoughts, just poetry — and most of the time, they were prose.
To write was to survive my own emotions and beliefs. It was to organize my own chaos into straight lines and square notebooks. Along the way, I was led to believe my words could find melodies of their own and become, perhaps, singable stories.
That’s when, without putting too much thought into it, I let fear crawl into my heart and hold my hands. There was no longer the need to write naturally, but rather a mission — a sense of obligation that took away the urgency I once felt to be myself, replacing it with the expectation of someone else.
Even today, I fear writing. I fear that my voice isn’t melodic enough and that my thoughts are too harsh and too dark to be part of something people expect to make them feel at least… well.
And so I stopped believing in my writing capabilities. It was no longer a question of surviving. It became a job, a focal point for others to critique and point fingers at. The spotlight was on me, and I could see it.
I don’t want to see the spotlight — I want the spotlight to see me.
I don’t make promises anymore. I go with the flow and let it carry me as far as possible. However, I am writing… still more in my head than on paper or on a computer, but I am writing again.
And it feels natural.