(Not as) Free as a Burd

March 19, 2009
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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.

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This article has 2 comments. Post your own now!

Stephenmcreynolds said...
Apr. 7, 2009 at 8:29 pm
That was really good, keep up the good work.

Can you please read my work to give me feedback?

penguin35 This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Apr. 7, 2009 at 7:48 pm
I love this piece. The theme is very good. I feel the same way as the narrator of the story; I feel like writing is so much a part of me. Well done.
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