The theory goes something like this. When I was younger, I was less discerning, less critical of my work and simply wrote whatever came to mind. Now I look at my words through a more discerning, more critical mind and am more hesitant to write something that may be perceived as sub-par.
I'm not so sure though, because really, is This Gift of Mine, so sub par? And I wrote that when I was 15. Please tell me. Looking back at much of my work, yes, I can see where it was raw and youthful and a needed to grow up a little, like here in I Turned 18 Last Week and the follow up poem. Yet much of it is not, even when I'm looking back critically on it. Looking back on it as a grown adult, a decade later.
Last year, or was it the year before...I was going to the coast with my cousin for a writer's weekend. I was so looking forward to it. We were going to a cabin on the Pacific coast during the stormy season, unfortunately that weekend didn't end up working out, and it got lost in the shuffle of life. I should have made something else work out though, I need to get away again, just go away somewhere and write, or at least intend to write. Take massive amounts of journals, pens, pencils and my laptop and have an internet connection.
This "theory" on why I can't write now that I am no longer held back, might be partially accurate, but I am in no way convinced that it is the whole reason. Somehow I think I'll know the words are here again f I can know with surety if these three lines should stand alone, or if I can finish them cleanly. For now they simply echo in my mind....
Dreams go grey
what once foreseen
will never stay...
~
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