rêves d'une âme perdue: inclined confusion

The failure is more consistent than my promises to write.

Writing: this was something I used to love to do. I shrugged it off when I was told how it gets harder to write when you're older. I always imagined that age brought wisdom and experiences write about. I was wrong. I have found difficulties in fully expressing my feelings. In the process of growing up and maturing, I grew accustomed to shoveling my feelings beneath the guise of inexplicable emotions. I piled them in lonesome stacks. Labeling the feelings as indescribable made them easier to ignore. I moved past them. I forgot them.

But I want to remember them again. 

I want to remember how to express emotions to myself. I want to be able to express how I feel to those around me. Really, how did I get to this point? I find myself incapable of expressing gratitude, thanks, and adoration to loved ones. I'm muted, as though there's invisible tape on my lips.

This needs to change.

A month-or-so post-college, and I'm still trying to find myself. Why did things look easier when I was little? Why can't I accomplish simple things anymore?

Here's one solution: I need to control my Watcher. I will number my posts and write. Write, write, write away. Write like no one is watching. Write like no one is holding a red pen, ready to stab away at my words. Write until I overcome the despairing, self-imposed restrictions of expression.

I got this.