litford.NET // New Fangled Since 1982

It is becoming glaringly obvious to myself that I am a terrible writer. If I do not will it, it comes, but when I do, it shuts itself from me. If my living depended on it I would be a pauper. I have not been entrusted with the key of good writing to unlock the vault of hidden stories at will. I’ll admit it, now that I’ve built the blogs, filling them with stories and pictures is hard, mostly because I’m lazy or uninspired. But I don’t believe writing can only be done as an inspiration as much as discipline is more important, with the purpose of communication of course. Of course, what is this purpose of all this? Lamenting here and feeling sorry for myself. It’s one of the downsides of having worked in public relations and brand management. You care too much about perception. True, when I blogged a certain way even before I worked in the industry, of course I wanted to be perceived a certain way, but even more so now that it affects my subconscious. This is not good, especially for neurotic pigeons like myself. And now its one thirty in the morning of a Sunday night, and I’m wishing there was someone around for good conversation, just so I could get my hit of catharsis without speaking into the empty air. Maybe I’m just terrified of losing my voice, the intrinsic little timbre in the inflections that reminds me, I’m still me. Or the carefree and brazen Come What May attitude I used to hold when I wrote. This voice somehow seems to lack courage and a personality. Doesn’t it sound defeated and resigned to you? There are too many rules that I’ve learned, too many things I’ve seen and observed, too many unknowns that I dare not tread. Where is the luster that inexperienced youth used to hold? Why do adults lose that burning passion when they gain more and more in this forsaken world? Why do we always end up taking the safe route and fading away into thin air, as if the war was over? Why do we dream about the holidays when we used to dream about saving the world? [ref: Wintersleep's Search Party] Mayhaps one day we find what we’ve all been searching for.