A Whirlwind of Writer's Block

I really just can't write anymore.

This scares me, this is something I've always loved to do and all of a sudden, I've lost interest. Maybe I'm just sick of writing about life and finding answers. Maybe I'm sick of looking. I've always used writing as an outlet, to look for answers. All of a sudden, I have no interest in answers.

Although this is terrifying, it is also very freeing. Real answers can never be found with some articulate epiphany. I don't even know what a "real answer" is. And attempting to define it is fruitless. As an English major, and an intense basket case, I've lived the past years creating outlines, producing papers, and receiving grades. I think subconsciously, I hide in that and use that as a guide to life; introduction, body, conclusion, grade, done. Move on to the next story. Do you have something similar? I don't want to get lost in stories anymore, I want my own.

The collected chaos of life has kind of stopped, stared me in the face, and proceeded to bite me in the ass as of late. I can't collect the chaos anymore, it's taken on a life of it's own. And I'm thinking that means I have to as well.

As much as I hate admitting this, the blog has turned into my personal journal that isn't so personal anymore. Writing about all the chaos rationalizes it for me, it outlines it and then I can be done with it. Like I said, I'm sick of writing about it. You can't write your story and live it at the same time. So I think this is farewell for now, I very much look forward to the day I don't need to rationalize everything, and I can write uninhibited and it can be enjoyable again. Until then.