There has been a feeling of pensiveness looming about me of late. Yet no matter how many times I try to coax myself to begin, no words seem to come out coherently when I put pen to paper.
I think perhaps it is this overwhelming pressure I feel to ensure that the words that do come out are perfect: perfectly describing all the thoughts jumbled up inside my head, perfectly encapsulating everything I want to say and everything I want to feel.
Maybe it would be more accurate to say: no words seem to come out coherently enough.
And so while I am teetering on the brink of desperately needing to write something – feel something – it’s scary to recognize that it might eventually not be enough.
So I hesitate. I stop. And I don’t start.
But I am tired of chasing perfection.
So what if my words are not enough to capture everything I wish to say? To be able to express just a tiny fraction of the inner workings of my mind – I cannot possibly be worse for it.
I want to chase the sunrise instead.
I want to feel the fingers of the wind in my hair, and condense every colour of the sunset into the palette of my life.
I want to follow the sun.
Of course, I am always more reckless when I am tired. I make the craziest of decisions when really, I should be in bed.
But on writing – and on feeling – I hope I remember how cathartic it can be to just go, and to just live.
Is there a conclusion to this even?
I don’t know.
I think maybe, for once, I just want to write. With no real structure and with little regard for the conclusions. I just want to write.
And see where it takes me next.