I Read My Own Writing… But It Didn’t Feel Like Mine

What I called mine didn’t seem to be mine at times. I wrote blogs, but sometimes they didn’t feel like I did. The same pattern, voice, thoughts, and even words- everything felt familiar, yet not mine. When thoughts shake, my perspectives change; they can’t settle forever. I read them like a reader, not a writer.

With calmness, reading feels satisfying, carrying the weight of improvements and flaws. With clarity all around, I was discovering, not creating. New thoughts knocked, while old ones didn’t feel like mine anymore. Neither did they forget, nor did I, but the connection lost its spark.

I was aware of clarity and confusion, but not wise enough to understand the confusion within clarity. However, it didn’t last long. Maybe I didn’t always write; sometimes writing happens through me. When emotions and voice flow through words, they can’t be controlled.

Until a few days ago, the first blog felt mine. Now, whenever I read it, it doesn’t seem like mine, despite being written with hesitation and overthinking. I wrote, read, observed, and improved. As I improved, the voice matched, but the lens of expression no longer made it feel like my earlier blogs.

The other day, the same thoughts returned. While reading old blogs, every second one felt different. I didn’t think much while writing, but it made sense later. New perspectives encouraged me to read with a different lens of expression. It felt less like expression and more like revelation.

I don’t choose words anymore; they choose me. I don’t edit much, yet it feels right. It feels complete with the effort I’ve put in.

I don’t control the writing; I witness it every day.

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