Despite all the things I actually want to write about, writing has somehow lost a bit of its wonder. Not having been able to write anything worth posting, writing now feels like an awkward conversation between friends who have drifted apart.
Before, it was so easy to just type things in. Now, I feel like every word is up for scrutiny, not by any reader, but by the very paper I write things to.
Attempting to spill out the words in this blank space feels like opening up to a familiar, yet now unrecognizable place. I wonder if the problem is in the paper, or the pen – like trying out a new ink on a piece of parchment. The ink seems to effortlessly melds itself into the fibers of the paper, many moons before. Now it feels like I am using an ink-filled pen on a glossy sheet.
The resistance is palpable. A resistance that was probably built from a long period of neglect, of fading familiarity — much like many things beyond writing.
Maybe, I need to give it some time before the ink soaks the paper. I wonder if I should just buy a new notepad, or something.
For now, I hope the ink sinks in.