Today, I realized that I haven't written for over a year. I came across a notebook of mine with little snippets of thoughts from my thinkings, thoughts that I never did anything with. They were supposed to evolve into quirky poems or deep, evoking pros, but there they sat, in my tiny floral notepad, the ink set soundly on paper. And I wondered why I let this happen, why I let writing, a love that is deeply set inside me, in the core of my core and the gut of my gut, wane almost into nothing. Writing is perhaps the only gift that I have ever felt really defines me. And for the past year, I've let this definition slip away into nothing more than a thank you note or a half-finished poem.
So now, Self and World, I make a vow on this measly, amature blog posting, to rekindle my relationship with writing, to be a pal to the pen once more. The desire for perfection has put an ugly cage around my heart and the fear of failure has tied my hands for too long. I realize now, that the pen does not have to be perfect in order to be lovely, nor uncriticized in order to be perfect.
