I've been rereading whatever I posted on this blog since the beginning of 2009, and I did not realize how angry I was at everything. Most things posted are full of frustration, angst, and biting sarcasm at petty happenings. In my mind, however, I was always sensible, calm, mature for my age. I am sure that this version of myself would never make it onto the page, because I would only write when I have no other outlet to express my pent-up frustration.
This explains the overwhelming lack of content over the last four years. I wish I kept a better record of my college life, but it was the direct consequence of not being alone. Does solitude necessitates records? Do all writers have to maintain a degree of isolation to create?
I can perhaps describe it as a volcano, or a water valve. To be able to write, I need to achieve a degree of pent-up neediness - neediness to express myself, neediness to get heard. Having someone around means a valve leaking; pressure could never build up enough to overcome the inertia that comes with entertaining diversion. Maybe that's why philosophers don't want to be happy, but that would be a side-story.
Who knows. Maybe this would be how I resume writing again?