My own captor.

"There is nothing to writing.
All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."
~Ernest Hemingway

I have no one to blame but myself for my lethargy and the lack of excitement in my life.  And I’m not talking about the drama type of excitement.  The will-they-or-won’t-they drama.  Or the why-didn’t-he-call drama.  Or the can-you-believe-he/she-did-that drama.  Or the my-life-is-so-hard drama.  I’m talking about the excitement of being alive.  The wake up and thank the universe for blood pumping through your veins kind of excitement.  I am happy.  But I am not satisfied.  I want more.  I want change.  I want movement.  And I want growth.  It makes me sad that I am the source of my own discontent.  I know what to say and what to counsel others to do.  And yet here I sit, alone in my room, in my underwear, crying into my computer.

I have no excitement.

What is it that I want out of life?  Who is it that I see myself becoming?  What is it that I would sacrifice anything to achieve?  My passion.  It speaks to me in fits and bursts.  I hear it and my heart pounds in recognition.  But then day-to-day life nudges it out.  I can’t allow the mundane to dampen the beauty around me.  I won’t allow the routine to stifle the allure of the unknown.  And yet, this is exactly what I’ve been allowing.  I speak of strength and growth and change and alignment.  Yet I ache with a desire to shuck it all and start over.  Who needs a job?  Who needs a house?  Who needs stuff?  Who needs life as we know it?  I remember, vaguely, how it felt to be free of these things.  Am I working toward a life where my truth is always my reality?  No.  And this is what stings my soul today.  I know that I am my own captor.

And in that thought lies all the power to overcome.



✏️ Writer • 🎤 Speaker • 🙋🏻 Teacher • RESILIENT OPTIMIST • Sharing words of love and compassion.