Every time I get my heart broken, I tell myself, “Maybe I should write about it”. Get my feelings laid out on every blank page of my journal. See what I am missing. Tell myself what I need to hear. But then I wake up a few mornings later, having cried, having dealt, having learnt, having felt and I never write about it.
Every time I make a mistake, I tell myself, “I should write about it”. I really should. It’s a great lesson. Knowing me, there’s a strong chance I make this mistake again. Someone should read it back to me. Loud and clear. Maybe then I’ll know that I know better. But then I move on to making new mistakes and I never write about it.
Every time I hit a road block. I tell myself, “I’ll just write about it”. That might give me some new perspective. Maybe I’ll see something that’s been in plain sight. That’ll help me undo whatever it is that’s stopping me from being who I imagine myself to be. But then I find inspiration in mamma’s food, a new book, a song I’ve been humming wrong the whole time, and I never write about it.
Every time I wake up feeling unlike myself, I tell myself, “I’ll just write about it”. People change, people learn, people unlearn, I am people. I must be growing up. Or maybe it’s just indigestion from dinner last night. Maybe if I write about it, I’ll know how I actually feel. Maybe writing about it could be a dialogue between who I am and who I want to be. Maybe writing could be whatever magic software application it is that they use to mirror office computers on their laptops while they work from home. But then I meet a new kind of me, I end up liking her more than I had imagined and I never write about it.
Every time I tell myself that I’ll just write about it, I never do. I never write about it. I wonder how things would be if I had written about them. Would I deal with the heartbreak better? Would I make lesser mistakes? Would I evade creative roadblocks altogether? Would I have a hundred percent grip over myself? I don’t know.
But when I know, maybe I’ll write about it.