There was a 12-18 month period between my senior year of high school and starting college where I felt the consistent motivation to write. Most of my output was poetry. Only a small portion of that work has been saved, and even that archiving is scatter-shot across a series of digital locations. When I get the yang to look back and what I can get my hands on now, it’s surprising how easily perspective can shift a piece from quiet profundity to blown out melodrama.
It also hit me a little hard the last time I looked over what I’d written, though I didn’t know what I was getting hung up on at first. I think I’ve realized now what it is; I feel now that I would badly like to write something down, to capture a small sub-set of the emotions that go through me, emotions that feel stronger and more important than any I have ever felt. Yet when I sit down to get that on paper, it feel impossible to capture. The same problem is persistent when I try to say what I am feeling out loud. The same terms and phrases repeat; happiness, glee, the knowledge of acceptance, and a deep, abiding love. These are the words I know, but so often they feel like the faintest approximation for what I want to say.
I would like to do better. I am not sure how. Writing is the only medium of expression I have ever found a semblance of expression in. I wish it were more cooperative in this situation. I feel like I was waiting for a muse, and now it has come and its scope defeats me.