I am a rubbish blogger. Life crawls and and haunts me and I let it go. I am not disciplined enough for this. But I was once ok at it. I used to write weekly. Poems, short stories, letters I never sent. Sentiment. Until I stopped.

I regret that. Writing used to give me a way out, a peace of mind, a relief. It brought me happiness and self-knowledge. However, at some point in time, it became too much. Not the writing, per se, but the things I was dealing with to be able to write. While writing was a way of digging into my feelings and understanding my own brain, I did not want that anymore. Mostly because I did not want to face the mess inside me. I did not want to go through the pain.

When I made this blog, I had all the intentions of making it about good things. Somewhere to focus on the joyful and pretty parts of life. But, you see, I am a romantic. Words do not come out of me as a planned out work of art. They pour. They might not pour in the most well written phrases and well chosen words, but they pour with feeling and truth. 

When life happens and swallows you whole, that anguish that dominates you might seem too hard to face. Ignoring seems easier. And to some, that might just be a possibility. I, however, have great memory. I am not as good at letting go as I wish I was. Things haunt me until they are dealt with. And my best way of dealing with the mess inside me has always been brutal pouring of words of feeling and truth. I can not post pone such healing any longer. 

I am no writer, but I need to write.

So, there you go, I can not make a solely happy blog. And quite honestly, I don't have to. 

I am sorry for deceiving you.