I have no idea what is going on with me.
I have been struggling to write a single poem for months now and failing. My journal is full and instead of getting a new one, I want to force myself to become digital and use the diary I have on my phone but I couldn’t, so i decided to go back to my book, but it seemed as if the door has been locked.
What I don’t seem to understand is, in this past months that I haven’t been able to write a poem – which is usually inspired by my life now or what I’ve gone through – my heart has been filled with fiction and I have written quite a number of them, from flash fiction to short story to novella.
It made me think deep if there is something in my reality that I dread so much that I can’t write about it and that made me find solace is fiction? Because I feel incomplete without poetry, even though the fiction seems to be okay.
Along the way, I discovered where the problem came from;
I am a writer, prose or poetry, but I’ve written some of my best works of poetry when I was quiet and observant which was my usual self before I came to serve. Now, I’ve opened myself to other possibilities of getting to know people, and relate with them, see things from their points of view and reason along with them. This was good for developing fiction but my quiet observant self seems to have been shoved to the rear.
The question on my mind now is if there is a way to balance both sides of me, because I miss one when the other isn’t around.