Today is my official second day of keeping a journal entry. The extra writing practice is said to help me become a successful published author one day. That “one day” at this point is not even close to the proverbial “light at the end of the tunnel”.
I haven’t found the tunnel yet, let alone the light.
This is characteristic of my life- wandering aimlessly towards an unknown destination for the entirety of my life. I know that I want to get there, but I simply do not know where “that” is. My journey towards the tunnel is like making a journey from Los Angeles to New York City dragging my 34 years of baggage behind me (which equal at least 25 suitcases and not the ones with the wheels either).
As I trek across the desert with my lifelong baggage, the sun blares her eternal heat on me in hundreds of judgmental rays that each have an own voice. These voices each belong to a different critic in my childhood and adulthood. As my music blares from my headset to block out the voices, I continue on my trek with all the sweat and tears (hopefully no blood barring any mishaps) to my tunnel.
I am now in that place on my journey.
I am not new to writing in general. I felt that I have always had a gift for it, or maybe it just was the best way that I was able to communicate. I was always a quiet child and when I did talk, I typically was a nervous wreck and stuttered my way through a sentence. Writing allowed me to communicate comfortably.
Thank you for taking the time out of your day to read this. I am still getting used to the idea that someone actually wants to read my writing, let alone find it interesting.