an explanation.

The more I read, the less I write. The inverse relationship seems ironic, but the two always seem to co-exist in my life this toxic way. As I delve into new worlds, I forget of the ones that exist in my mind. The other fantasies seem far more tantalizing than mine. I spin into a cycle of insecurities about my own notions, there’s no turning back. Everything becomes irrelevant. And, so, my love for writing surpassed that of reading, the decision made without any consultations from my conscience. The books strewn across the corners of my room begun to fade one by one, until there were but a seldom few. Still, I felt no satisfaction. A vital part of my life had been snatched away from me and I couldn’t let myself go back. It wouldn’t last long. The second I stood in a Barnes & Noble, the scent of fresh pine and musty carpet overtook my unconscious decision. I had to read, that was it. And, so I live as I have always lived, in the midst of the war between the two parts I love most, trying to overcome my own inverse relationship. There’s no stopping it. I go for months without a word on a page, and for months without pages of words. That’s the way it is, no matter how hard I try. But, still, I’ll never quite stop trying.

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