My appreciation for words has been most prominent these last few years.

I don't really know why.

I had been a writer all my life, quite literally. I was praised for it as a child, I guess one would be proud if their small child wrote totally powerful poetry like how trees are green and how flies buzz. Of course, whatever I wrote grew with me, and how I viewed the world. From bright colorful innocence to somber, quiet, sadness. That's how I grew, I don't mind though. Ever since my little heart started to become a small little romantic poet, I found the beauty in sadness and pain. It made for great poems, and vast ideas. The exploration of emotion was a concept that I journeyed for endlessly. Life was a complex mix of unexplainable feelings, and I don't think I could ever write it's complexity as something the human mind could comprehend, I'd have to invent words, and even if I did that, they'd sound so strange and their meanings so deep that it would sound like I was speaking in tongues. That's what I love about writing though, the fact that I could go as far as to invent words means that my journey would go beyond my life, that there would always be things to write about, there would always be emotions to try and understand, there would always be language and song.

Another thing that might've affected my surge of inspiration is, quite funnily, my aesthetics. This website in particular is a great example of it. Dreams, the dreamland, mixes of colors and distortion, soft waves and blurry lines, starry visions and muted memory. I used to be, not surprisingly, a dark academia type person, I suppose I still am, but there's another layer to myself now. Something a lot more sensitive, specific yet vague, confusing. The pictures of grasslands and flower fields against the soft blue of the rising sun. Sunday dresses and bare feet, suits that are worn and outdated. The feelings these things give me are quite unreal, dreams you could say. I used to be disappointed that my little daydreams stayed within the unreality, but who said they weren't real? They were with me, I experienced them in my mind, and they inspired me. It's very peaceful, and it's my style. The emotions you feel imagining these things are how I like to think what my style of writing would look like as oil paintings.

Maybe I'm just a sad little boy, and I was given this gift of words as an output. Maybe it was expected that I would be overflowing with emotions that some higher being made sure I could use it to my advantage. Or maybe it's just who I am, what I'm good at, and what I like. It's just how my brain is wired, and funnily enough, I don't mind. I like it, being the nerdy romantic poet that sits down with a glass of coffee and looks at words. That's just who I am, and maybe that's why I'm so inspired these days, because I've accepted that. Had I not accepted it before? Maybe not, I guess these days it was just really hitting me.

I was a talkative child, I had many stories to tell, albeit mostly fabricated ones. I liked talking about anything, maybe my heightened emotions also caused a great, over exaggerated perspective on anything I experienced. It's the same today, although a little less colorful and maybe more earthy, or muted, gray. But it's fun to talk, I never found it to be a bad thing, it could be dangerous sure but used right and your words and how you speak is a powerful weapon that can silence thousands, or just entertain a few people.

The build up of things in my life is what has created this. Me, this website, how I talk, and how I write. It's also the reason I have this little realization probably. I like it though, looking back and reflecting on the aspects of life that led me to today. It's almost meditative and clearing, looking back on the things you love.

Maybe it's just me, but I suggest you try it every now and then.

Lots of Love.