from a small corner

I suppose in reality I have to accept that I am not the person that I thought I was, or would be at this time of my life. I'm not even close. Writing has always been in that small corner of my soul, waiting to be given permission to act. When I was younger, I did think I would be a writer. Perhaps my teachers did too, as they encouraged me to join the youth writing squad when I was in primary school and to continue attending through secondary school. Maybe I would have carried on if it weren't for everything else going on at the time. That became a bit of an unconscious mantra. "There's just so much going on, I can't do that right now. I'll have to sort this situation out first and get on track with it before I focus on what I really want to do". How many others have had this type of procrastination, and it is procrastinating. There is never going to be a moment where you have nothing else going on and get to focus solely on your heart's desires. It needs to be pushed from within you, and created despite adversity.

I have been timid in the footsteps of my past selves' wishes for me, sometimes carrying on when it feels intuitively like I have lost my gateway to the next chapter. Fanciful though it may seem, it is becoming evident that I need to refocus on the central themes of the life that seems to be my destiny. I am entering my late twenties now and it is too late to be in practice mode. I need to put down roots, I want to explore myself in greater depth and experience being the me that feels truthful. Writing used to be something that brought me comfort, calm, and joy. It restored faith in difficult times, and grounded me into being present. I feel that I have lost my voice and need to find it. If that happens through many repetitive, emotional journal entries here, then that is how it must happen. Like a pen that may have run out of ink but just needs a scribble on the page until it can get going again, I'm hiding in the corner of the page, ready to write.