MONIQUE T. VITCHE
Editor-in-Chief

The majority of the time I have difficulty expressing myself, which is probably a bad thing since I am a writer. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation that’s making it so difficult.

Or maybe I just don’t enjoy it anymore.

A lot of things have changed in the last year that I often blame as my reason for not writing as often as I used to, outside of reporting or writing poems for my poetry class.

It’s a strange feeling when people all but disappear from your life. When it happens gradually, you almost don’t notice it, but when it happens instantaneously you feel as though you’re alone in the middle of a ghost town at night. Maybe that’s just me who feels that way. There’s only so many one-sided conversations you can possibly have.

I came across a quotation that probably sums it up better than I possibly could. In “Cakes and Ale: Or, the Skeleton in the Cupboard,” W. Somerset Maugham wrote, “It’s no good trying to keep up old friendships. It’s painful for both sides. The fact is, one grows out of people, and the only thing is to face it.”

It makes sense. However, I wouldn’t call these friendships old, but I guess you could say we’ve grown out of each other. Rather, they’ve grown out of me. It’s bound to happen if you’re both at different points in your life. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

That’s probably one of the things I use to blame for my inability to finish the second half of my essay collection, open up to people and so on. It’s especially hard when one of those people gave you a reason to write. My friend told me that I probably have a hard time writing because I looked forward to receiving feedback from that person.

This person kept asking to see more of it. It gave me a confidence boost. That’s the problem. I wasn’t writing for myself. It’s something that I’ve noticed a lot – the first time was earlier this year.

I remember writing: “…all I have are these incomplete stories in my head. I have different versions of them that I had bound together, creating a journal filled with mistakes I can’t be bothered to correct.”

Some people write puns, I’m just melodramatic.

There are people who get paid to sing and write about their troubles, and my problem is I don’t know how to articulate mine without being all “woe is me.” Sylvia Plath is a great example of someone who could pull this off perfectly.

Then again, I don’t really want to talk about my problems. I’m not even sure what they are anymore.

I think about who my closest friends are, and sometimes it appears as though I don’t have any anymore. I still do have them, but we don’t talk as often as I did with others. I think I’ve misinterpreted talking every day and thinking that that was what friendship,
closeness was.

Clearly, it wasn’t, and it took me a while to realize that but at least I know that now.

I’m more independent than I used to be a year ago. I’d like to think I am, anyways. I was talking about this with one of my friends the other night. I’m not as dependent on people anymore and it’s a good thing. I need to be able to take look out of myself.

I’m not being pessimistic when I say that I can’t always rely on people to be there; I mean it in the sense that I have to be able to look out for myself, take care of myself. I’m working on it.

I recently came across a comic from my friend Beth that pretty much sums up all of my problems. “I think of problems like backpacks. Maybe this is because I like to appear self-reliant and able to handle everyday life stuff, but sometimes your transport to haul around changes, making the daily stuff about a million times harder (let alone talk about).”

There are people who say I’m too quiet. There are others who say I don’t know how to shut up. One day I’ll be able to find a comfortable middle path. I hope. For now I’ll just have to keep on writing, or at least trying to. I need to just learn how to write freely without worry. It’s easier said than done.

Things are remarkably different now than they were last year. The person I talk to the most isn’t someone I knew a year ago. My inner circle has taken a huge hit, and it’s impossible to do damage control. But I’m okay with all of it.

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