I was just looking through a dust filled chest of archived moments from days ago. 

I wrote with an odd awareness,considering I was 17/18. An awareness of the standards I was meant to live with and an uncomfortable knowing of the standards I lived in. 

My first thought in reading older writings is to say, “What happened to how I write? Before, it was so… compelling? Or raw? Different…” Then I realized the whole standard thing… I’m now living up to par with those standards. I’m far from perfect but surely I’ve made progress.

So when I think about my writing now, I run out of words to write. I don’t really have any thoughts. It’s too soon. Like a joke about something bad that just happened in that ever too familiar cringing tone of voice that causes you to immediately regret what you had just said. It’s too soon to learn about myself from this blogs writings.

I do feel as if I’ve lost some of my writers flare. As I recount most of the blogs I’ve written, at least recently, I’ve been searching for truth. For answers. For pure love. For the kingdom of heaven. Don’t know it’s book worthy material like I’d once hoped. But it’s my journey.

Thanks for accompanying, this may get more exciting eventually*






*Note those two words: maybe. eventually. 


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