ellosteph:

I used to write a lot

When I was in high school I would make it just as the bell rang with bloodshot eyes, because I spent another night submersed in this purple composition notebook. I tore through that notebook jotting down ideas, rants, doodles, sayings. It was literally my mind between a paperback cover. 

I was a lot braver when I was younger, because my writing really scared me, but I would continue to transcribe my thoughts onto the paper anyways. That’s what bravery is; Not doing something because you aren’t afraid to, but continuing to do something even though you are afraid. Doing it because you know you have to. One day, I don’t know when, but that day scared me too much and kept me from writing again. 

I was way ahead of my peers in regards to writing, and I suppose that would affirm my lack of friends growing up. I can honestly say I was a better writer at 15 than I am currently at 20. When I started to branch out and form a social circle I started to dumb myself down, and my writing would scare me even more. 

So here I am a 20 year old college student, who is sitting in a corner in her room shaking, because of only a few words from my 15 year old self saved onto an external hard rive for who knows how long. It’s not a talent, it’s just sad. Sad that a completely different person  who I was just five years ago can break me. 

I used to carry so much in, but I didn’t know what it was. I used to take whatever this darkness was and put it onto paper, write philosophical arguments with myself, bring up things optimists are blind to. I never shared it with anyone. Looking back now I understand why I didn’t. How can I expect a peer to carry what I wrote when I can’t even carry it myself 5 years later?

The human brain works in mysterious ways. There’s conscious memory (also known as narrative) and unconscious memory (also known as emotional memory). When the unconscious memory is pushed too far it also takes away the details on the conscious memory. To this day I don’t know what I did with that purple notebook, and I wonder if I did it to myself.

I can only imagine how many 15 year olds are out there with their composition notebooks. I wonder if they have the same bloodshot eyes, the same words and thoughts transcribed on paper, the same hole in their stomachs, the same ostracism they put upon themselves. 

Knowledge isn’t always power. Sometimes it is just plain scary.

I used to write. I used to write a lot.