̶ ̶ lxiii. ONE DAY, BUT NOT TODAY.

i'm trying to wrap my head around why some days i write so beautifully it takes my breath away and others i am on the verge of erasing all the hard work i've put into every space between the books i've created because it all doesn't seem right.

i want to write something that makes me happy. i sit back, i read circles and trying and i see myself looking back at me proudly with a smile on her face mouthing that this is who i am. but i can't write as well as i once did and i'm confused as if i am running out of ways to express every emotion that has built up inside of me or if this is the depression talking, tracing my spine as it whispers how my insecurities are more than just that.

i still try to find myself in my own words yet strangers i've never met tell me that the scenery i portray is breathtaking but how am i supposed to believe them when i read it myself and all i feel is emptiness and not enough and fear of what's to come if this isn't the worst of it all.

i continue to write to fulfill the people who read with purpose and i think there's a big difference between writing for others and writing for yourself.

i'm still searching for the right words to piece it all together that i read my own writing and i don't see what you do. i see something that could be better, an opportunity not taken, a mistake that i should've known better.

i'm not trying to sound selfish but i no longer want to fill you up when i write to become empty. this vacant body is all worn out and can't find inspiration in things as easily as it once came.

maybe one day, i'll find the right words. maybe, just maybe, it'll all click and you'll finally see my name in bright lights holding more than just insecurities and what ifs.

one day, you'll find happiness within these words.