I’ve abandoned writing for several years. Creatively, at least. I created this blog when I was fifteen. I’m twenty-one now (Lord, I have to use a hyphen). Graduated college. Employed. A far cry from the child who created this online space; a bid for connection, doomed to rot.
And yet, people are here, still.
Would this be considered the online version of urban exploring? Wading through the wastelands of a blog abandoned by its creator, power still on, each room a capsule of a time long past.
I’ve missed my penchant for creativity. I used to create stories in my mind when drifting off to sleep; now I listen to videos, my phone screen flipped. Scared of the thoughts that erupt in silence. Terrified of my anxieties, my doubts, what the next day would bring me. In my waking hours, I scroll aimlessly. Running from internal confrontation. My mind slips. Creative muscle weakened, unable to do a quarter of the things my childhood mind could conjure in a few minutes.
I went for a walk today. For the first time in six months, the music I listened to morphed into a scene. A climax for a story that I’d toyed with before forefitting. And I was whisked back to an era of my life where this came instinctively.
Then, I found a writing video by a creator I loved when I launched this blog.
I opened up my old Google Docs.
I found a draft for this blog.
Went to WordPress.
Discovered that WordPress was still taking my money. Somehow.
Found that the “views” bar was… not at zero as I had anticipated.
My profession leaches you away when you’re not looking, hell, even when you are. Even if you know it’ll bleed you out, you stand there with your arm extended, watching.
I can’t let it warp me. I won’t let it. I don’t want to succumb to the exhaustion, the guilt, the fear, the complacency. I don’t want to watch my reflection wash away. I want to fight for my creativity. My fucking soul.
That’s all I see in this blog–my attempts at creativity, reflection, community. To put myself out there. Regardless of the quality of my writing, it’s mine, it’s mine and it’s here and it isn’t forgotten.
You are here even if I am not.
J.V. Montague 