I'm not writing like I used to. My writing skills have deteriorated to those of a fifth-grader. Quantity isn't an issue here, for I write something just about every day. Quality is what I'm talking about here. What happened to being deep? What happened to probing the philosophical?
I used to do that. I used to be adventurous in my writing--not just adventurous, but deep. Nothing was left untouched with my pen. Even the cosmos would cringe when I came near, for my ideas would soon be exposed to the world... or at least, Dr. Nbook or whoever stumbled upon my online journals. After all, not everyone wants to hear an angsty teenager's thoughts on life, the universe, and everything.
Now, however, I've lost something. Maybe it's the ability to turn random thoughts into readable prose. Maybe it's the multitude of ideas. Or maybe, just maybe, I've outgrown the angsty teen phase. Hey, I will be twenty in January, and being an angsty twenty-something just doesn't sound as cool. Whatever it is, it decided to run away from me one day, and my fumbling attemps to recapture it are leaving me breathless.
Some would say it's a summer thing, the natural deterioration of brains that happens every year. That's not exactly true, though, for my brain has been deteriorating for several years. It just hasn't been exercised as well as it once was. The brain is a muscle too; use it or lose it. Thinking about this, however, brings up a very scary thought.
Have I already passed my literary prime? That's a rather scary thought, but it's something I must come to terms with if I have. If it's true, then is there any hope at all of regaining my thoughts, of being able to communicate in prose my heart's desires? Prose is my main method of communication, for I fail miserably at oral communication. Lately I feel like I've been failing at prose as well.
What do we do with those who fail,
Fail at that which they love?
Do we taunt them, shun them,
Play pity games, or
Wait for the love to return?
If only I knew. If only.