I seem to remember a time when my own mind was far more attuned to the mystical, the magical and the extraordinary. The capacity for depth and passion are certainly there, it is the barriers of fear, cynicism and doubt that must be left at the side of the road.
Sometimes I wonder if the mental fatigue that I often feel is simply due to me trying to hard to write something deep and profound. I can't help but think that my psyche rebels at the pressure I put on it to create something brilliant. Instead, I end up feeling like my thoughts are forced and my writing stilted. Things do not flow naturally and trying to loosen up only makes them more wooden and contrived.
I hope by reading more of Anais' journals, I will find some sense of my own inner profundity. Perhaps in reading beautiful words, the metaphors and descriptions that come to my own writing will become more beautiful and descriptive instead of forced and cliche.