Laxative

It's been going on a year since I've posted.

A year.

That's just bloody ridiculous.

The problem is that in my life, if I don't write all of my thoughts and feelings, they become emotionally stuffed down to the bottom of my toes, to a place that even my toenails wonder if there is hope for another life beyond. Emotionally stunting myself is no good choice when it comes to my wanting to change my life, get through college with good grades and even greater memories, and eventually write. Write. My dream. My longing. My great desire to leave something of myself to touch the lives of countless generations to come. To change the lives of people; for new perspectives to be gained; for new ideas wrestled and dealt with; for something of mine to endure. Therein is the end goal.

I find myself to be a very stubborn individual. I know what I need to do. What countless others have had to do. And yet, I try and find ways around the standard and get gain the same results. I do not like taking paths well broken in. Tonight I had the choice of 4 different types of beers. All of my other companions chose red. I, though loving the red kind, could not fall into the mold. I chose green. This silly example illustrates my deep need to step out and be different. However, this great need of mine is becoming a bit ridiculous as not only am I not a genius able to write a masterpiece at the drop of a hat, but that I feel my skill leave me day after day when I do not use it. It's bloody obvious what I need to do.

I need to write.

I need to keep daily thoughts going on something. Something that will help the creative juices flow and keep the emotions out of my toes and in places (like my heart and soul) where they duly belong. Will I write every day? Probably not. Although now that I'm thoroughly inspired we may be able to bank on one consecutive week. Ok, let me speak truthfully. We may count on 3 days in a row. If we're lucky.

But consistency is key, not perfection. To hone a skill, to learn a craft, requires years and years of practice. I do not wish to remain emotionally and literarily constipated. So here now is my laxative. Is my fiber. Is my writing. Is my blog.