It's not that there is a dearth of ideas. They are there. They assume the most tangible forms in my consciousness. I think of putting them into words. The inclination to attempt foiling the vivid imagery with inadequate expression is overcome by my desire to preserve it in its truest, most original and unevolved form. For I seem to be losing faith in my ability to express myself frankly enough to be understood by those I want to read me.
Honesty is still my number one priority in keeping my relationships with people alive, spirited and to make me feel truly connected. Lately, I seem to be taking the easy way out; escaping answering questions about myself, hoping my friends don't see through my lies, wondering if my animated chatter seems happy enough to all around me, crossing my fingers that the constant nagging voice somewhere inside my head doesn't become loud enough for people around me to hear.
Here I go again. Doing what I didn't want to. Writing betrays my intentions. I am expressing myself, yet again.
Time maybe for me to dig out some of those half-ripe ideas rotting away in that dusty old attic of a mind of mine. Time for me to carefully wipe the patina of self-consciousness off them and revive that feeling that prompted me, even if for a second , to challenge myself to express the abstract, the inanimate and the uncanny feeling of wholesomeness it brought to me for that short while. I am craving for the excitement again.
I am hoping to snuggle back into my comfort zone, and hopefully, without much effort.
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