The other day someone told me that they loved reading my blog but that I was very angst sometimes. Honestly I just took it as a compliment because I didn’t know what that word meant. So I looked it up. It is a word for fear or anxiety; used to describe an intense feeling of apprehension, anxiety or inner turmoil.
Maybe that wasn’t the right term to be used. But then I started thinking.
Are writers prone to angst? Or are angst-ridden people prone to writing?
I wonder, if all those years when I was a little kid, scribbling in my pink and purple lock-and-key diaries, filling up pages of notebook paper, it was because, even then, I was driven by the need to vent?
Even at that young age, I thought about Stuff. I worried. I pondered Life.
It seems some brains never shut down.
(I can relate.)
My mind is never quiet.
And it is usually when I am in A Place...some weird place I can get in...either surrounded by plans or dreams or worries or fears or all of these, that I feel the urgency to write most. Even when I don't write (as has been the case on this blog lately), I am constantly composing in my head. The sentences are formed, the words swirl around, all in an attempt to make sense of it all: whatever is in there, currently, in my head.
Perhaps it is like a defense mechanism: the words are my safety net that catch the thoughts that threaten to drown me. They give me the very false feeling that I am in control. Of something. Of anything. At the very least (or the very most?) of myself.
And so I wonder: is it the writer in me that over thinks everything? Or is it the thinker in me that has to write? Hmm…
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