Tonight, or, well, actually this morning, I had an epiphany. Okay, two. The first is that I’m living in a house of insomniacs. I came to that particularly astute conclusion after realizing that out of the six or so people living in my share house (still not sure I’ve met everyone after a month of living here), at least four were awake as of 3:44 this morning.
The second, and far more pertinent epiphany was that I am uncomfortable writing nonfiction. I’ve been puzzling over my reluctance to add to this blog in written form for some time now. Why do I feel like I’m pulling teeth (my own) every time I sit down to write a post? Why do I, nine times out of ten, give up before I even get half a sentence down? Why does my written narration of my journey thus far feel so stilted and unnatural? It isn’t because I’m bored with the material. On the contrary! I love the path my life is headed down. It isn’t for lack of vocabulary. There have been times (not in this blog, obviously) when my writing has been commended as extremely articulate. Ornate even, in its imagery. why then do I have such a tough time writing about something for which I clearly have a passion?
fear. It’s fear. Fear that I’m going to sound dumb as I wax poetical about the time I walked barefoot through the streets of Lisbon at 2 in the morning. Or how Granada seemed even more magical when a fine mist spread over the city like a blanket and made everything sparkle. Or how climbing to the top of a ruined, forgotten castle in the foothills of Abruzzi was one of the most spiritually rewarding hikes I’ve ever been on.
So here’s my New Year’s resolution. Face my fear and write what I feel even if I sound melodramatic and silly. Because what I feel makes it real. At the end of the day, it’s what makes my adventures worth living.