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A piece about my perception of my own writing capabilities. 🤷‍♀️😅

I write in ways that are redundant and direct.
I write in ways that leave no room to interpret or question what could be conveyed.
In this instance, the book can be judged by the cover.
It leaves no room for the reader to infer their own meaning or emotions within the work.
It is simply stated clearly and plainly.
There is no confusion or deeper hidden meaning.
The reader may feel nothing due to it's directness.
The reader may feel understood.
That is all I ever wanted,
To be understood.
Perhaps, this is why I write this way.
It ensures that my intentions and feelings are clearly understood.
It is not always the best as it may be too much.
It may not say enough.
It may barely scratch the surface of what was meant to be conveyed.
Emotionally stunted, an infant essentially.
Learning to navigate the entirety and complexity of my own emotions.
Trying to be descriptive, trying to be less vague, trying to be honest, trying to be better at explaining and expressing the true extent of my emotions.
Not quite reaching it, but learning and growing nonetheless.

I used to write in ways that were descriptive and expressive.
The words lifted off of the page and floated into the minds of the readers.
Weaving together to create images and depictions that could never be forgotten.
Timeless and unique to the reader.
Endless interpretations and boundless potential.
Filled with passion that could rival the very foundation upon which it was built.
Sensitive and vulnerable.
Unashamed and unassuming.
Flawed but brilliantly crafted.
Unafraid of the consequences and my own existence.
Bold and spontaneous.
Not concerned about the possibility of being misunderstood.
Simply embracing it when being misunderstood.
Writing in ways that were entirely me that defied the conventions of what it meant to write while still adhering to the rules and flow of this art when needed.

Now being concerned about how to write and what is expected.
Becoming a shell of what I once was or rather what I had slowly began to bloom into.
I had retreated back into my cocoon before fully transforming.
Desperately wanting to be understood.
Believing every single negative comment ever directed my way or rather what I had imagined to be directed my way.
Bottling up my emotions like Coke and mentos waiting for the moment that it would react and explode.
Focusing on how I was perceived and heavily influenced by everyone and everything around me.
Desperately wanting to fit in.

Unfortunately, not realizing what a blessing it was to be misunderstood.
How beneficial it was to be unassuming, bold and spontaneous.
Disregarding the importance of my sensitivity and vulnerability.
It made me, me and unleashed a bountiful world full of creativity that was unapologetically me.

It may be gone now but not entirely.
The fire that raged inside me,
Had not been fully extinguished.
A single flame awaited until it would one day become a full blown inferno that neither wreaked havoc nor remained complacent.
It would burn and dance along with the wind.
It would remain bright and fierce
And fully encapsulate the past, the present and the future.
As Neverending possibilities awaited for the once fearless and the once frightened bud or caterpillar.
It would finally fully bloom or transform into it's final simple, beautiful and complex form.