I was flying high just a few days ago. I saw more readers in a few short days than I’d seen in a few months time. It was the best feeling. I was humbled. I felt like I’d really accomplished something. It was a huge deal. I knew it wouldn’t last. What goes up must always come down. I fell so fast and landed face first in the dirt. I didn’t have a single visitor yesterday. My fifteen minutes of blogging fame seem to have gone and went. That fall from the top was brutal.
So here I am wracking my brain in the wee hours of the morning. I can’t come up with anything interesting. My mind is blank. I have this story I poured everything into and I can’t bring myself to do revisions. I can’t bring myself to do much of anything lately. I’m out of touch and uninspired. I guess I’m a little lost. I have all these great ideas and potential. The problem is things get lost in translation with me, I have all these thoughts,feelings and ideas that are exploding in my mind. They either don’t come out right or I’m too scared to let them out and take on a life of their own. I can’t finish what I start most of the time.
I’ve been told many times that the things I post on social media are cryptic and they don’t make any sense. This is exactly what I’m talking about. Sometimes I can’t convey a complete thought. Most of the time I read it and I know exactly what it means. I see what I left out. I’m notorious for that. It’s frustrating as all get out. I don’t know if there is one person on this planet that understands me or really knows who I am. Most people can point out my flaws quickly. Lucky for me I know these all too well. I live with them.
Being alone on the weekends usually makes me somber. Everyday when I wake up I hope that it will be the day I finally get it right. It doesn’t happen. Some days I get pretty close. Most days I don’t even come close. I feel like a terrible failure and start the cycle all over again. I’ve gone back into recluse mode. I don’t visit the land of the living anymore. I don’t have the energy and I like my safe place. I don’t know if writing is my safe place anymore. I’m thinking about giving it up again. Writing makes me happy but without purpose it feels like a waste. I don’t think I’m being realistic about keeping up my responsibilities and having time to write. I need balance. I also need a sign.