I took a break from writing for a while.
When I write, I write from the most analytical part of my brain, and it’s exhausting. I really enjoy piecing together my deepest thoughts in case anyone else can relate. I love that feeling—the feeling of someone who completely understands.
After a while though, I start to get dragged down by my writing voice. When I write often, my brain talks to me in paragraphs. Even with this, my brain started typing this all out, and I had to grab my notes to keep up.
It’s great to analyze, and I love to discover the why behind my feelings. I love talking about the nuances of thought and where they came from. I think writing is a talent that I sometimes wish I didn’t have because it traps my brain more than other types of thoughts. When I envision a future me, she’s a person who wouldn’t write because she couldn’t care less about all the things I enjoy writing about. She doesn’t need to analyze her life because she’s too focused on living.
When I realized these things, it made me initially sad. I just rediscovered writing and discovered what I wanted to write about, and now I don’t like the way it keeps me buzzing with my past, with the possibility of the future, with the need to stay present. I turned a blind eye to it and forgot. I haven’t written in a while because I feel like a hypocrite.
I don’t want to think so much. I want to simply be. So why share my thinking brain because it reinforces that brain and reinforces it in others.
I miss writing, but I like myself better when I’m not a writer. I love writing so much, but I love the me much more when I’m not writing.