I’ve tried to come back, but it has been the last time ever time. There is no way out of the hole I put myself in, but I see favorable times where I lead myself down happier trails of lies, better moods to connive and ways to suit my anger with quiet resilience and ease.
I used to write just for the heck of it. I wouldn’t care what people thought about my writing, or how it came out. I felt I needed to work on my writing, but I still put out what I believed worked. Yet, those times have passed along with my esteem for my writing. Sometimes I look back and wonder where the carefree nature of my skills has gone, I haven’t been good, but I was there. Nowadays, it is as if I succumbed to not doing it because I see that everyone else is doing it better.
I realize I waste a lot of time comparing myself to nothing, and nothing good comes out my comparisons to myself for nothing. I come and go with my inner battle defining self; sometimes I win, sometimes, I lose. But at least I came back to say where I have been.