I wrote this days ago. I don’t know why I never posted it. It’s something to think about, that.
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Sam has been suggesting I write about something else every once in a while, just to get away for a little, to lighten my mood when it gets too dark for too long. I know I should have other topics to talk about. I used to write poetry. What happened to that?
I haven’t passionately created anything out of words since I first started college. I used to think it was the busy schedule. But now, with a 9-to-5, it isn’t that. My hands don’t seem to connect to anything other than this awful burden of memories.
Again, I find myself given a worthwhile suggestion, but the path to fulfillment is left to me to determine. I’m left wondering if I should start another blog, one where only those ideas I have that are untouched by depression or darkness go. Then again, by doing that I’m fragmenting myself further. I would also subtly project the untrue message, rape survivors don’t have thoughts concerning anything other than their mental anguish and social difficulties. As I don’t wish to commit either of these sins against myself and others, the idea for a new blog is joining murder and coveting.
So, that officially does away with my only idea. Obviously, I won’t stop thinking about how I can diversify my writing, but if you have any prompts, criticisms, suggestions, or otherwise, feel free to volunteer them to me now. I’m a desperate woman.
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