I’m staring on my laptop screen for almost an hour now, browsing through my tumblr and wordpress blogs. Rereading my previous posts and entries instead of doing my research in history and survey of arts. I haven’t written something significant yet since last year. I’ve been telling myself that I’m on the verge of writers block, but am I really? A writer, I mean. It struck me that line I always read somewhere that Not all writers are sad, but all sad people write. I started my day reading All the Bright Places, and Violet used to write until her sister died then she just stopped, cause she feels like she’s cheating on her, for living. I wonder if I’m just like Violet, I stopped writing cause something died inside me. Is that the case? Or I’m just a crappy writer wannabe?
There’s a lot of things I think about, when I’m just sitting in a class that I already took once before, when I’m walking quietly beside my best friend, when I’m listening to my ipod waiting for the hour to go by and there’s a lot of it I imagine writing, but I couldn’t get myself to do it. I think they’re just not worth writing for, not worth remembering.