We aren't doomed

I don’t write beautifully anymore. My words don’t flow into streams of illuminated thought like they used to. Now my words are jagged and sporadic. They have become fragments of my actual thoughts. People have always said that the difference between a writer and not is the ability to transfer your beautifully transposed thoughts onto paper. It’s the distance between the paper and the pen tip (or the keyboard) that dooms many would-be writers. It has doomed me.

My college history professor pulled me aside to tell me my calling was to be a writer. And this was based only on my test essay answers. That was probably the most influential moment of my college life. But now, fragments, disconnection between my body and soul.

Maybe we all need muses. And maybe my muse used to be drama. Perhaps my life is absent of the drama I used to write about, absent of the heartache that was my condition. It is possible that I am the sort of writer that makes losing look less like losing and more like gaining the world. Maybe I haven’t discovered a way to illustrate happiness yet. Just like in life, writers grow. Maybe I can grow to be able to write about happiness just as poetically as I did about tragedy.

Or perhaps I’m gained too much realism. Maybe my dreamer status allowed me to romanticize the art of losing.

There is enough time for me to learn how to reverse these adverse effects. Enough time to relearn that art of fluidity. There’s always enough time.