Post by shetukhatun02 on Jun 6, 2024 5:55:30 GMT -5
We all have our passions, those things that light us up, that make us feel alive. For me, it used to be writing. Not just writing, but writing in a specific way – crafting stories that were both intricate and meaningful, weaving worlds that felt real and breathing life into characters that resonated with readers. It was a love affair, intense and passionate, that began in childhood and blossomed into a full-blown obsession in my early twenties.
But then 2020 arrived, bringing with it a pandemic, a wave of global anxieties, and a relentless drumbeat of bad news. It felt like the world was crumbling around me, and I, along with it. My creative spark, once an untamed fire, began to flicker and fade. I south africa phone number couldn’t summon the motivation to write, the words wouldn’t come, and the stories I had been meticulously planning seemed to dissolve into a haze of uncertainty.
The turning point, I think, was 2022. It wasn’t a single event, but a culmination of factors – the persistent pressure to produce, the relentless comparison to others, the voice in my head reminding me of my failures and shortcomings. I felt suffocated by the weight of expectations, both internal and external. The joy of writing, that once felt like a boundless ocean, had shrunk into a stagnant puddle, choked by self-doubt and fear.
I started to avoid writing. I told myself it was a break, a necessary retreat to recharge. But the truth was, I was afraid. Afraid to face my own limitations, afraid to acknowledge that the passion I had so fiercely clung to was slowly slipping away. The world was too dark, too chaotic, too filled with pain. And I, a fragile creature of words, simply couldn't find the light within it anymore.
It wasn’t until recently, looking back on the past few years, that I realized what had happened. 2020 had been a turning point, but 2022 had been the year my passion had died. 720, the year I lost the magic, the year I stopped believing.
But here’s the thing: I don't know if it's gone forever. Perhaps it's hibernating, waiting for the right conditions to reawaken. Or maybe it’s truly gone, and I’m destined to live a life without the spark of creativity that once defined me.
The truth is, I don't know what the future holds. I don't know if I'll ever feel that passionate fire again. But I'm not giving up hope. I’m letting go of the pressure, the expectations, the need to be someone I'm not. I'm exploring other avenues, rediscovering joys I thought I had lost.
Maybe the journey back to writing is a long and winding road, or maybe it never happens. But even in the absence of that old passion, I’m finding solace in the present, accepting the beauty in the messy, the unexpected, the unknown.
And maybe, just maybe, somewhere down the line, I'll rediscover that spark, that fire that once burned so brightly. Maybe it will be the same, or maybe it will be different, but I'm holding onto the hope that it will return, in its own time, in its own way. Because even if 720 was the year my passion died, it doesn’t have to be the year my story ends.
But then 2020 arrived, bringing with it a pandemic, a wave of global anxieties, and a relentless drumbeat of bad news. It felt like the world was crumbling around me, and I, along with it. My creative spark, once an untamed fire, began to flicker and fade. I south africa phone number couldn’t summon the motivation to write, the words wouldn’t come, and the stories I had been meticulously planning seemed to dissolve into a haze of uncertainty.
The turning point, I think, was 2022. It wasn’t a single event, but a culmination of factors – the persistent pressure to produce, the relentless comparison to others, the voice in my head reminding me of my failures and shortcomings. I felt suffocated by the weight of expectations, both internal and external. The joy of writing, that once felt like a boundless ocean, had shrunk into a stagnant puddle, choked by self-doubt and fear.
I started to avoid writing. I told myself it was a break, a necessary retreat to recharge. But the truth was, I was afraid. Afraid to face my own limitations, afraid to acknowledge that the passion I had so fiercely clung to was slowly slipping away. The world was too dark, too chaotic, too filled with pain. And I, a fragile creature of words, simply couldn't find the light within it anymore.
It wasn’t until recently, looking back on the past few years, that I realized what had happened. 2020 had been a turning point, but 2022 had been the year my passion had died. 720, the year I lost the magic, the year I stopped believing.
But here’s the thing: I don't know if it's gone forever. Perhaps it's hibernating, waiting for the right conditions to reawaken. Or maybe it’s truly gone, and I’m destined to live a life without the spark of creativity that once defined me.
The truth is, I don't know what the future holds. I don't know if I'll ever feel that passionate fire again. But I'm not giving up hope. I’m letting go of the pressure, the expectations, the need to be someone I'm not. I'm exploring other avenues, rediscovering joys I thought I had lost.
Maybe the journey back to writing is a long and winding road, or maybe it never happens. But even in the absence of that old passion, I’m finding solace in the present, accepting the beauty in the messy, the unexpected, the unknown.
And maybe, just maybe, somewhere down the line, I'll rediscover that spark, that fire that once burned so brightly. Maybe it will be the same, or maybe it will be different, but I'm holding onto the hope that it will return, in its own time, in its own way. Because even if 720 was the year my passion died, it doesn’t have to be the year my story ends.