I’ve come to the realization that I don’t like writing anymore. Actually, I came to the realization a while ago, this is just the first time I’m admitting it.
Writing feels like an inauthentic expression of myself compared to connecting with someone face to face, or sharing visual representations of what’s going on in my brain with photos, paintings, drawings, smiles, etc. I tend to speak with, not only my hands, but my entire body, referring to myself an empathetic sponge. I soak in what people say, swallowing every syllable they speak and holding my hand on my chest as the words make their way down my throat, through my chest and into my stomach to live for months—years at a time. Writing doesn’t feel like it allows me to do that anymore, and being that it’s also how I make money and afford to eat ridiculously overpriced granola bars, it’s been a difficult road to acceptance.
This is something I’ve been grappling with for the past 1-2 years, and it’s taken this trip to make me fully realize, accept and not judge myself for it.
The thing about calling yourself anything, really, is the idea of identity attachment to it. Whether it’s your job, relationship status, hair color, anything.
“Hi, my name is Shauna and I’m a writer.” But I’m not a writer. I’m not anything, other than myself. And I’ve worked really hard on stripping away these layers and releasing myself from this egoic mindset.
In this new season and practice of non-attachment, I’m going to contradict everything I just said and continue to post snippets of my trip, focusing more on visual representations of where I’m at, where I’m headed and how I’m feeling. Mostly so my family doesn’t freak out.
Anywho, that’s enough existential ramblings fueled by an excessive amount of caffeine for now.
Here are 5 things I learned in Texas: