The End

Tightness in my chest begins to consume me and my breathing becomes heavy and fast. Too fast. My heart rate increases despite my responsiveness to it. I try to slow my breathing. I try to back away from the hyperventilation that I know is soon to follow. It doesn’t matter what I do, it’s coming and there is nothing I can do about it.

The kids begin screaming at each other in the basement. My hands clench into earnest fists and I close my eyes to shut out this world. I look for another. One that I fear I’ve forgotten amidst the hubbub of daily life. A blank screen stares back at me. The keyboard feels alien beneath my wandering fingers. I am at a loss and I sense I’ve lost it all. I’ve lost what makes me me.

I cannot remember the last time I wrote a line of poetry or prose without thinking about Facebook in the next occurring thought. I have no clue how long it has been since I have wrote a story or thought of a funny memory or even jotted down an antidote that hasn’t ended up on some sort of social media platform.

Somewhere along the line it has become about the likes and the shares and the almighty feeling of having the other humans of this world commend me for doing just about any ‘ol thing and the glorification of it all is intoxicating. I am addicted to being “liked”. I am captivated by this tiny electronic screen, idly waiting to spot the next red notification bubble pop up simply to tell me that it has happened again; SOMEBODY LIKES SOMETHING I’VE WRITTEN. It’s compulsive.

So now, as I sit here needing to write not for the beauty of the craft but for the exaltation I will receive from those who read it I feel the anxiety creeping up my spine.

Once upon a time I wrote because there was an inherent beast of storytelling existing within me. He encapsulated every ounce of my being and without him whispering words in my mind’s eye I’d merely keel over and die. And that is no exaggeration my friends. There was once a time when I’d surely have withered away if refused the ability to write down all of the beautiful and terrible and heinous and outstanding reveries that happened throughout my travelling mind.

These days however I haven’t scribbled a sentence in over a month and the only reason I began today was because my Blogging Mama page reminded me (with one of those glorious notification bubbles) that I haven’t gotten as many “likes” on the page this week so I should write a post. As you may know, we must collect those likes and those shares as if they were our lifeblood. As if they sustain that air of well-being we tote around with us in our day-to-day existence.

I am tired of lugging around that particular sort of well-being. It comes with too many chains and locks, too many variables.

Instead I want to feel a pencil scratch across a yellowed notebook. I want to write something down and not second guess it because of whom may read it and what they might think. I want to once again feel the joy in having written. I want to believe in writing again and look forward to the challenge. This is where the best kind of self-worth comes from – something done humbly.

So just like that I will say farewell. The time has come for this blogging mama to write something new. It is time to write something that doesn’t comply with notification bubbles or the likes and the shares. Something that is simply about the words and the stories. It is time to remember how to write right and write passionately.

Thank you so much for reading The Blogging Mama.

Image result for The End