I gave myself writer’s block a long time ago when I decided I would always take the safe route. Now I’m stuck in a world full of beautiful things and nothing to write about them.
But I am trying. I’m stepping out of my comfort zone. I’m talking to people, and I don’t mean talking to people about the weather and what they’re getting their degree in. I mean talking about things that affect me like my friends and how they treat me, and what it felt like the day my mother died.
I’m saying fuck it to things I’d otherwise tell myself, “No, don’t do that. It’ll all go wrong.” I gave someone my number. I got rejected. I gave someone else my number, and now I can’t shake them.
I’m saying fuck it to things I won’t be able to say fuck it to ten years from now. I called out of work at my useless part-time job to see the band I’ve been dying to see for three years now. I’m booking a flight to the Philippines to visit my best friend that I haven’t seen in two years.
And I’m writing.