I’m back. I wish I could say that I’m better than ever, because that sounds cute and casual and like the right thing to say when you come back to your blog after leaving it abandoned for a month, but the truth is that I’m just confused. I didn’t set out to give up on this, but one day four weeks ago I woke up and didn’t want to write. I felt vapid and boring and like I was putting pictures up just to put pictures up. And that’s not me; I can’t do that. I felt like I was getting completely away from who I was and instead was just sourcing things to create this person that was saying things that I didn’t want to say. Yah, I love inspiration photos, but that’s not making your day or my day better. So I didn’t write one day, and then I didn’t write the next and then every weekend I would say that I was going to write a week’s worth and then I wouldn’t write even one and I just kept not doing anything. At first I felt guilty and then I felt relief when I realized that I hadn’t looked at pinterest in four weeks. I was losing my voice, and that probably doesn’t mean anything to you, but it means everything to me. It’s really all that I have. It’s my brand equity and I accidentally lost it.
I didn’t have any real intentions of starting this again, only one person even mentioned me not blogging (hey Amy!) so it’s obvious no one noticed or really cared anyway, but I am in a really interesting phase of my life and I want a place to talk about it. Tonight when I got home from work, I talked to my husband for a long time about who I am and what I’m trying to say and how I feel so uninspired and he said something that profoundly struck a cord in me. He said that I’m not inspired because I fill my days with bloggers and real housewives and twitter and e news. I’m not inspired because I’m not filling myself with anything inspiring. That is how I lost my voice- I gave it away to trashy tv and other people living their inspired dreams; I forgot to keep any of it for myself.
When I was 21, I moved to DC and was sickly depressed. Like, couldn’t get out of bed. I was fighting heartbreak and loneliness and utter sadness that I left my California utopia and moved to a place lacking any and all creative vision. One day I pulled myself together, drove to the metro, metro’d into the city by myself and walked around the National Gallery of Art all day. I got lost in sculptures and Rothko and spent hours in the room dedicated to Edgar Degas, my favorite artist. I went home that day with new air inside of me. I was inspired again, for the first time since leaving California, and that’s what I’ve failed to experience here in New York. Instead I fill my free mind with vapid television and fake reality tv shows. Don’t get me wrong, I’m really exceptionally happy and my life is really extraordinary, but I’ve been missing something, and I finally figured out what it is. I forgot to care about important, critical things. I forgot to study things that I care about, like art history and upcoming fashion seasons and the bible and crafts and powerful women and beauty trends from around the world. I just forgot.
So what does this mean? I’m not sure. But it does mean that I finally figured out why I wasn’t saying anything. I just forgot what I set out to say, but I’m back, because I remembered, and I know exactly how to find it again.