To say “I don’t know where my inspiration comes from” would be a lie.
A big fat lie. Everyone knows. No one tells.
Who wants to be that blogger searching for pity or praise? Am I being too humble? (Is that pretentious to even suggest???) Or am I just a big coward hiding being a computer screen?
My inspiration comes from life experiences. Should be obvious, right? But not always. Every single poem is about someone. Although, most likely, that person doesn’t know it. Or probably give two hoots about it. And that’s fine with me. I don’t blog for them anyway. I blog for me. I blog to write down my life experiences to maybe reflect upon them in my wiser years. And for whomever finds me interesting enough to know about my boring everyday life.
Also, I’m funny. Or so I’m told.
Many life experiences remain undocumented, sadly. Many thoughts and opinions stay locked up in my head – on repeat until my brain fixates itself on something else. Usually cheesecake. Or baking. Or something that will undoubtedly make me fat.
This, my friends, is why I work out.
But yes, the truth. You’ve been waiting for it, and it ain’t nothin but the truth. But I’m afraid of vulnerability. I mean, who isn’t right? Seems like a silly unnecessary thing to state. Saying it makes it real.
I might be only twenty-seven, but I’ve been through some major life experiences. None of which are publicly documented. And most of which many people have never experienced. And every time I try to write about something so personal – so emotional – I clam up and stop. That delete button needs to disappear. How ironic?
My struggles and triumphs will become faded distant memories if never recorded. I’m never the one to make promises I cannot keep. So I’ll leave you with a real expectation:
I’ll probably be drunk on red wine when I decide to show my real self. Not that I’m fake now; I’m just vague. None of my posts have been fictional, although I wish some were. So here’s to using my blog as a blog.
Who knew that’s what these were for??