Sometimes I wonder what happened to me. I wonder where that fearless, outspoken accidental writer of the past disappeared. I wonder why I don’t write as frequently as before. In fact, if I were honest with myself, I would also acknowledge that I don’t write as honestly as before either. While I am still quite outspoken about things that do not directly concern me (politics and social mores for example), I find myself quite reticent when it comes to things that intimately concern me. I find myself often wondering how my family will react and what they will think about certain things that I write about. I find that this is a fairly recent occurrence. Every time I put words on screen, I find myself wondering if I should publish it. If I do publish it, I find myself wondering what people will think about it.
To be brutally frank, I hate the new me. I hate the fact that I have begun to obsessively look over my shoulder, trying to figure out what people think and what they will say. I am beginning to get restless. This is a restlessness that comes of having too many things to say and no-one to say it to. No. Scratch that. It’s a restlessness that comes of having too many things to say and not knowing how to say it. The mind is so full of things that I am forgetting how it is to let my hair down and have some fun. I am desperately waiting for the old me to resurface. God alone knows how long that’s going to take.