I haven’t written for my own pleasure in a long time. I miss it. Mostly, I miss the act of writing something (by hand) that is my own and not a piece of writing forced upon me by school or any other kind of work for that matter. At the same time though, I take my not-writing as a sign to suggest that I feel better morally and psychologically. See, like for most other people, writing was my outlet for when I felt angry or sad and just generally depressed. I have seen myself change for the better but I sort of wish that I didn’t write just because I was sad or couldn’t deal with life. It’s true I was sad when I wrote but some of the writings I produced even impressed me. I can’t find that n me anymore. It’s sort of as though the darkness of not knowing who you really are allows you to plunge deep into it, dig up those feelings, and express them in words. Then once you know or begin to know, you seem to lose that… or perhaps you just lose interest in the quest altogether. Whichever the case, there suddenly seems to be an absence… there’s no big question that’s gnawing at your brains. That’s not to say I’ve got it all figured out – I’m far from that. I still have trouble sometimes, and I still don’t know where I’m going but maybe I’ve just given into finding out somewhere along the way. And yes, I still have a lot to say… but it’s none of that inner turmoil that just spills itself out onto blank, empty pages. That’s gone.