Are writers even writers anymore? Or do we try so hard to be?
We write, yes we write, but why not without the claim to be?
I can’t stand the title writer. Or the sense of being a certain person in particular. I write, oh yes I write, though do I have to play the role of writer?
What do you do? Oh, I’m a writer. What does that even mean? Do I have to force myself to write everyday just to keep my creative flow clean and find the words easier than I can now since I haven’t written in days, weeks, months?
The more you put out to the say, the less nice it sounds. I take no time to make the sound sweet to your ears because darling they’re no less in mine; I can’t stand the lack of flow that seems to be scraping in mine. The sound is less sweet than I always thought it would be is this how it is to not be a writer or am I writer asking for help in the midst of creative flow. I need to write—no I don’t—I only feel the urge when I see something nice; maybe oh, I can do that too I always want to do something cool yet I can’t seem to find my cool what does it mean. I want to stop typing but I’m scared I’ll miss something good. The words used to come to simple and oh did they sound beautiful. Sitting now reading jumbled words while they fall through my finger tips I can’t seem to piece them together like the tiles of these titles I wish I was more a writer and less of a wanna be everything.
I wish I did one thing more than I did everything. I find myself in loops of hobbies hating each one every time.
I ask myself what does it mean;
I feel like a bird forcing itself to do every other animals task, before learning to fly.