Honesty is the entire point.

I don’t know if it actually took me this long to discover the truth or if I’ve just been hiding from it this entire time, but now it looms over me; the elephant in the room.
Manipulating the written word into a beautiful string of near poetry used to be my sharpest skill. These days I struggle to write anything at all. I’ve blamed it on a lack of time. I’ve blamed it on depression. I’ve blamed it on mania. I’ve blamed it on work, on not getting enough sleep, on growing up and forgetting my soul.
That’s not what’s going on here. My writing used to be open and honest. I wasn’t worried about my audience. I was writing for me. I don’t do that anymore. Blame technology or blame fear; it doesn’t matter.
I need to get back to my roots. After all, all good writing is created by the artist sitting down at his desk and opening his veins for the page.
Maybe blogging isn’t the best form of self-expression.

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