used to

I used to be a writer. I used to be a painter. I used to be the goalie for a state semi-final hockey team. Funny; returning to this house I questioningly refer to as home always makes me remember what and who I used to be. Caitlin came by the other day and sweetly admired the paintings that my papa proudly snagged, framed, and hung around the house. Paintings I had excitedly created under the learned guidance of Mrs. Cliche, my high school art teacher. That was two years ago now. Since then, I have painted a bit but accomplished nothing spectacular. Why is it that I need an assigned period of time and space in order to enthuse myself to paint? I used to love to create but I am now finding myself with a sincere lack of ambitiousness.
When I return to this house, I neglect who I have become by reminiscing over who once was. Though I would certainly still consider myself a writer, my inability to place words to paper in the past month makes me queasy about such a self-titling. I know that I need a break from the kind of writing and reflecting I have put out over the past academic year, but to completely free my typing hands from the board seems more like back-tracking than allowing myself a vacation. Anyways, words pass through my mind so rushed and determinedly that to not have a space of outlet is damaging and keeps my head too foggy.
Alas, I have landed here after a good search of “free blogs”. Perhaps next I shall step up to the easel, brush off my paintbrushes and acrylic paints and truly start reconnecting my “used to”s into my nows.