“Hiatus.”
I wonder, sometimes, if I write for approval.
Do I genuinely like writing or do I simply pursue it just to hear the praise of my readers?
For knowing what words are supposed to feel like on a page with the anguish and the torrent of emotion behind it that can only come from a human heart.
I don’t like what I write.
It’s kind of rare that I do.
The people around me tell me that it’s amazing, that it’s beautiful, that they take cannot wait for the next one.
I can, though.
Sometimes I can’t.
That’s when it’s hardest to write.
I want to wait, I want to let the words fall out of my mouth spontaneously. I want to be known for having an idea and simply writing.
But I can’t do that. Not anymore, it seems.
Once upon a time, I think I could. But I don’t know what spurred me on.
My own emotions?
Or the emotions of others that I’d get to see on the faces of those who read my work?
Was I truly hyperfixated so heavily on writing?
I don’t know anymore. Writing feels empty.
Like I’m trying to fit my words into a mold, like I’m trying to force the emotion.
The tortured artist doesn’t go through the torture anymore, but you’d think that the lack thereof would at least leave an artist.
But not even that is sitting in that puddle of blood and tears.
The spot is empty.
They got up and walked away.
A pause or an ending?
I don’t know.
I don’t care to know right now.
I think the answer would ruin me.
