I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer.

As I type these words time is passing. Of course. My diaphragm is assisting my breathing, my heart is forcing my blood flow, my eyes are blinking; involuntary movements. Simultaneously, in contrast, I am forcing my hands to press the keys in front of me, begging my brain to concentrate on the assignment at hand, making conscious efforts in diction, praying that the message I long to preach will be one of coherent nature. Spilling out these thoughts I am suddenly confronted with a discouraging realization: writing has become a chore for me.

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…



I have read the preceding paragraph sixteen times, not knowing how to continue. I am satisfied with the few lines, but immediately I feel a false sense of accomplishment upon their completion. “Yes Bailley! Finally, a paragraph out of the way!” I am aware that this is a pointless celebration; readers won’t take anything away from a mere blurb of my consciousness. I begin to feel lost; hopeless. Am I even capable of reaching this miniscule literary goal?



With this notion I am confronted with another struggle; am I writing this to please an audience, or am I writing to satiate my own hunger for expression? I quickly grow frustrated. There was a time when such uncertainty was foreign to me. A time when my pen would race across any sheet of paper, attack any assignment, and provide therapy for any problem. When I fell in love with words only two years ago, I believed the initial infatuation was so strong; so passionate that my newly founded relationship would last a lifetime. Instead I can feel its presence fading away, I can feel it abandoning me, and I can feel it dying.



Some could argue that the previous statement is one tainted with melodramatics. But when I began to identify myself as a writer, I finally felt whole, I finally knew that I had a purpose. So, in my eyes, losing both of those intangible gems is a devastating experience. Because if I can no longer write, then who am I? A dancer? An artist? In my past, yes, but those passions came and went, leaving behind only their impressions on my mind, body, and soul.



Believe it or not, but this column has taken me a month to produce. Yes, a month of pitiful apathy, a month of self-doubt, a month of missed deadlines. And even now, as I feel I should conclude this act of desperation, closure is no where to be found. Without this passion I can never truly live, I will only survive, and I deserve more than an empty existence. But only I can reignite the flame. I must take responsibility for my own happiness and well-being; I must find the strength to rise above this obstacle. And now, at my lowest point, I only have one choice—to start climbing, and never look back.