When I get the urge to write, there’s usually a specific reason. There’s something I have or want to say, something I feel needs to be shared. At times it’s even a way I figure things out. By writing everything out then going back to edit, I may discover a lesson I didn’t even know was there. No matter what shape my writing comes out in, there’s always motivation and inspiration behind it.
You were that source of inspiration for me.
When I experienced writer’s block, I’d direct my thoughts to you and just like that, I was struck with an idea that transformed into something amazing. The work I’m proudest of stemmed from you. That class essay I got an excellent grade on, my first-ever published piece. You were the absolute best topic because you gave me the absolute best and worst experiences to write about. It was satisfying, too. It felt great to say every and anything I needed to. It was like having a chance for you to view my side of it all, get a glimpse into how you made me feel. Even though I know you’ll most likely never read any of my words.
But now I can truly say you’re no longer inspiration for me.
Even writing this, having it technically be about you, was hard because the spark you ignited in me is simply gone. And as wonderful as it was to have you as a muse for such honest pieces, I’ve decided it’s even more beautiful not to.
Because to me, not writing about you anymore means that I’ve actually moved on. Not just telling myself it with the hope it really happens, or merely an illusion of forgetting. It means I’ve opened myself up and let each emotion escape through my words. That release has left me comfortably empty of you. And it’s not a bitter or resentful emptiness. It’s the emptiness that signifies healing. It’s the kind of emptiness that isn’t just hollow, but means it allows room for more. It’s the one that welcomes new people, new lessons, new experiences. It lets in new inspiration from someone different, something different.
It’s safe to assume I’ve said what I needed to say. I’ve come to terms with what should’ve been accepted a (very) long time ago. Writing about you has given me that understanding I wouldn’t have gotten elsewhere. You’re done bringing me anger and sadness. You’re also done bringing me happiness and excitement. It took time, but you don’t give me anything at all anymore.
That’s not to say my memories of you totally faded. I’m sure they’ll always be around in me somewhere, showing up unexpectedly.
But when they do, I’m so, so happy I won’t need to spill them onto a page.
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