Words are inadequate but they’re all I have

I haven’t blogged for a while now. Almost all of my recent posts were written in a poetic structure. I kind of missed writing in a story-telling format.

Anyway, this is a good sign, perhaps? I only knew how to write about sad things—and I don’t write anymore.

I have all sorts of things I could write about. I had drafts in my notes, but they weren’t sensible enough to get posted. I also have a lot of prompts. At postmidnight, the universe is unrelentless in giving me something to ponder on. As much as I want to write them down, my thoughts are a mess; and every time I open my laptop, the urge to type it out goes away. I don’t know what’s it exactly about. Laziness? Or mere fickleness?

Or maybe the realization that words aren’t ever enough to concretize my thoughts. It’s either words were lacking, or my vocabulary isn’t wide enough to put these thoughts down into words. They remained scattered, and when I struggle to organize them, their sense begin to diminish. Always is a time when I view things in retrospect, in preponderance, only to leave myself questioning the essence of it all, of my life — and words, sadly are too inadequate to embody them. But they’re all I have.

I don’t know. This must be something people call writer anxiety.


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