Why I don't write anymore Dreamed 4615 days ago | | 704 words

Writing was my escape. Ever since I was introduced to the beauty of the written word in 7th grade I used poetry as my escape. It got me out of my head for awhile and it allowed me to let the beings out that lived there.

I would indulge in my own head for awhile and let the words flow onto the page. Rushing forth like a river of emotion flooding the white lined pages of my journals.

Those journals I still keep with me always. I have never thrown away a piece of my writing. I have never let an ounce of it escape.

Similarly I have never printed, published, posted, or reread most of it. There are small bits that were published within Clarke County High School Literary Magazines which I threw myself into for four years. It made high school bearable. Even enjoyable at times.

Then I moved. I went to Richmond, where I am now. I got out of that tiny town where everyone knew my name and knew me even when I did not know them. I think I wanted that anonymity. I wanted to just get lost in a crowd for awhile after being a big fish in a small pond up til then.

I went to VCU, a decision I still think about every day. Still not sure if it was the right choice to make or if college at all was the right choice to make for me, ever.

I feel like all the creativity I had enjoyed and submerged myself in, in high school was sucked out like a giant hose. Where high school was an amazing place filled with talented and creativity thinkers and artists, college was a void.

The literary magazine there was a joke and I learned very quickly there was no place for me there, (despite that I stuck around for a few years until I could take my leave gracefully). At CCHS we prided ourselves on producing 2-3 magazines every year and my senior year I co-produced a student music CD that was to accompany our third magazine. They were chock-full of art and angst and were playfully designed by myself and others on aging equipment in a building shared with the future farmers. That was fun. That was exciting. That was an amazing time that I miss so much…

I moved to the newspaper, an odd place for a dreamer to end up, but there was work there. Design work, which I craved. And there I met another group of awesomely amazing people. Some of which I am blessed to still call my friends to this day.

Those few people very quickly became my family. Whether they ever knew it or not. They were very close to me.

You’re probably asking yourselves by this point (if you’ve made it this far) what the hell this has to do with my writing.

Everything.

I used to write to escape and I drew from my environment for inspiration and to dream of better things. When I moved to college all of that died. I don’t know if it was the dull gray city. The sterile dormitories. The rooms of people who were there to drink themselves into comas before all else.

Maybe it was finding out that advertising was nothing design or art-related it was just finding new and better ways to sell shit to people who don’t really need it.

I have an advertising degree. I hate advertising. Go figure.

I don’t write anymore. I’ve not written anything worth anything in years. And I felt that part of me drifting away. Into the void. Into the abyss. Into the nothingness of Richmond.

Maybe it’s time for me to move on. Maybe I need to get out and to get myself elsewhere. Maybe it’s time to pickup and start anew like I did 6 years ago when I left Berryville.

Maybe I need to learn how to tap back into that part of myself. The poet. The writer. The one who really didn’t give a damn about what he thought and felt. The one who still dreams of better things and making life better for himself and others.

Maybe I need to be reborn in my image that I left long ago…

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