On Losing Your Voice

No, I'm not talking about laryngitis here. I'm talking about the inability to express yourself properly, which is among the worst feelings that this life has to offer.

I reconnected with a favorite teacher of mine very recently, one who I hadn't spoken to in multiple years, despite intending to for as long. She was the first supporter of my writing; she'd read whatever I had to offer, no matter how horrible it was. (For example: she slogged her way through a story in which the main character yelled "Lucy likes pot!" She said I should rephrase it. I was talking about glassware.) Anyway, I figured that the best way I could explain to her how much I'd grown over the past few years would be through my writing, which she immediately upon seeing me demanded a sample of. I got home, searched through my computer, and realized that I only had one measly single-page story on it since I last rage-wiped everything, which was last December. Yeah. Completely unacceptable. I still have several notebooks to go through, but I don't remember anything particularly stunning within any of them.

I have a cast of characters that I've developed far beyond any other group I've ever had, but I can never seem to put their respective miseries on paper regardless of how hard I try. I have dedicated entire evenings to writing, yet always seem to wind up on Buzzfeed instead. This is a fact that I deeply regret, but can never seem to move past it. There is always something more pressing, something more exciting. I have long believed that I could be the voice of a generation, that I could inspire a mass awakening. Alas, I shall never be that great, no matter how I wish to be. Thus is the sad reality of life.

I have lost my voice. I do not possess nearly the command of the English language that I once did. It is regrettable, but it is the inescapable truth. I do not know if I have it in me to try anymore when there is so little gratification for me. Perhaps I will, but I will fail anyway. For I believe that there is no such thing as success; for each battle that is won, there is another that drags itself out for days, months, years until lost. Sometimes the battles do not seem to come quite as quickly, but they will always be there, reminding you that somehow, there still may be worse to come. I fear the day that it does.