When Writing is Not Therapeutic Anymore

It’s been a while since I’ve written here. I’ve tried and failed, tried and failed.

I asked people to help me out, give me writing prompts.

I chased unbaked ideas and tried to make something out of it…

– Nothing worked.

And then I pulled out my diary – the diary where I record my thoughts to clear my head out.

And was devastated to find that writing doesn’t help me anymore. Doesn’t.

It’s like I’m scared of language now; scared of defining my fears too articulately.

You know how when you define something, the meaning sticks around in your head because that’s how your brain functions? I’m scared of that.

I’m worried that if I define my fears too well – that the words I pick, the connotations I choose, they’ll all come together and form a meaning that will restrict me; that will give me the false idea of having figured myself out, when there’s a huge chance of having read it all wrong.

I’m worried that the meaning I make of it will be harsh, and that I will end up undermining myself and then that is what will stick.

Even now I’m worried about how rigid I am with this very post, this very idea – how I’ve let language convince me that I am scared of language.

 

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