Clarity

By stariskye

Fri, 23 May 2014
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Ernest Hemingway described writing as something completely natural as bleeding out if you were cut open. Unfortunately, right now my veins are dry. Still the the idea and the memories I want to commit into actual words are causing a tumultuous war within the confines of my mind. Yet, I can’t find the will to do so. Is it because relaying my memories into a story would conflict with my will to move on? Or because I am naturally not that great of a writer who strives to be one? The questions remain unanswered.  

I wonder what kind of life I’m supposed to lead…there is so much that I have done through foolishness. Is this supposed to grant me the vision of being wiser? I don’t feel wise. I feel tarnished. I never thought I would be the kind of person to allow life to bruise and tear their once clean and innocent soul. But I fear that that’s what I’ve become. I can feel it. I’m not what has happened to me, I am what I choose to become…however I feel like I was never given the choice. 
 
Instead of coming out triumphant of life’s hardships, am I destined to be an example instead? If I am, I hope to God that I am a damn good one. 
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