By chance I ran into someone the other day who reminded me I have a blog. I didn’t think about it too much, but it sat in the back of my mind, floating there.. waiting.
Today it told me to log back in. It took me 5 minutes just to track down my password.
So I opened it up, prepared to be horrified and ashamed of the terrible writing that must of taken place here.
But… Its not so bad. Its even touching, and a little bit raw, like only a naive 20ish girl could be.
I stopped writing when I finished uni, save for my journal and a poem here or there. That was November 2011. I’d stopped writing here months before that. I honestly thought it was a childish dream that I’d grown out of, and I’d never want to engage in it again. I thought I’d used up all my youthful inspiration and that it doesn’t matter what you write, because none of it makes a difference and its all the same story.
But its not. Because I’ve still been reading. I watched my sister develop her own writing style on her tumblr, which sounded oh so familiar to a certain blog I used to run where I voiced my outraged complaints about the world. And about finding spirituality and love. The similarities were so intense. Its only fair she should get to see where my creativity went at her age.
So maybe I will have to read all the archives, delete a few posts? Or maybe I will just leave it.
I miss those blogging days though, what a different time.
It seems strange that I no longer have the urge to write now that I am in my own house, with my own cat, on my own bed listening to the birds singing outside my window. This was supposed to be the ultimate environment for my creativity. And I’ve neglected it, neglected my brain.
I’ve been very busy that’s true. But aren’t we all. Yet here I am.
I think I will come again.
Her name is Honey Fox.
EDIT: Once I posted this, wordpress awarded me some certificate for making it to 180 posts! fate n shiz