From time to time, I check in on the activity log that tells me how many people have accessed this blog and how they got here. Most come via a Google search for a picture. I hope they stay for the thoughts, but I doubt that they do.
Once in awhile, I check to see what post it is that attracts a lot of attention. Apparently, my post titled 45 Mercy Street gets a ton of hits, so today I went back and re-read it, along with a few others.
I've come to the devastating realization that while deep in the throes of SSRIs, painkillers, and other mood-altering substances, I'm a much, much better writer and a more pensive and insightful person in general. Has being relatively normal made me shallow and mundane? I would love to write the way I did in 2007 and 2008, but the thoughts and words don't come to me that way anymore. It's as if the medications made it possible for me to access a part of my brain that is otherwise shuttered--perhaps to protect me from the Hydra of moods that comes with that access.
I want to be a better writer. I want my words to flow the way they used to. I feel expressively stunted. Perhaps I need to back away from Twitter (although, that's a good idea for a lot of other reasons).
I'll work on that. In the meantime, take a minute to read or re-read my post, 45 Mercy Street. You can find it here. The discussion in the comments is worthwhile, too.
I also like this post.
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