A Year of No Posts

A friend commented to me today that she still checks my blog, but I never update it or write anything. I realized just now, as I logged in, that it has been over a year since I last wrote something on this blog.
Sometimes I think that I put off writing because I have nothing worthwhile to write, or that no one will read it. I so often forget that the worthwhile ideas and realizations often come as I am writing, and I shouldn't write for the sake of having an audience of readers, I ought to write simply for the sake of expression.
I have known since I was in elementary school that it was my "destiny" to be a writer. I often avoid words like destiny, because they are too loaded with meaning, and cause us to assume too many things. So, I suppose I mean by the word "destiny," that I was meant to be a writer, and it was something like a gift and a curse put together.
One of my favorite ideas about writing, that I discovered when I was in high school, is from Sylvia Plath: "Why do I write? Is it satisfying, is it worthwhile, above all, does it pay? No, I write because there is a voice within me that will not be still."

I constantly feel a voice within me that will not be still, not just prompting me to write, but to understand the world, myself, others, beauty, poetry, pain. I think one of the greatest tragedies in life is when people only live to get through each day, survive their job, seek some diversion, get enough sustenance and rest, and all of those things are enough. Aren't we made to seek something more than this, the daily life that numbs us into passivity and submission? We have forgotten, in this land of consumption, conformity and waste, how to dream and hope that life could be more than this, that we were made for more than this superficial life?

I am grateful that I was born with such an innate discontent. . . .may I always be seeking something more.

"The world seems to always be waiting for its poet. . ." -Emerson