Writing weekly journals again. As I pick up my pen, my mind is a blank void. What should I write about? I suppose my classmates studying at home feel the same, perhaps seeking shortcuts through copying, but ultimately, what is there to say?
I feel a profound lack of desire to write. Is it because junior high life is too mundane? Or because I fail to observe closely enough to write insightful book reviews? Looking at the bookshelves, it feels as though I have already read many of the books and turned them into essays. To write sketches feels unappealing. After all, I have already written similar pieces, and both my teacher and I are tired of them.
Or should I just pick a random topic and write a stale argumentative essay? They might earn high scores in exams, but I feel a growing distaste for those flowery yet hollow words.
Someone once said, "To move others, you must first move yourself." This principle fails me entirely. In three years of junior high, I only wrote three pieces that truly touched me, yet to examiners, they were worth little, scoring only around 35 out of 50. Meanwhile, those uninspiring essays consistently earn 39 or even higher.
As I prepare to write, I cannot suppress the thought: isn't writing meant for more than just grades? It should be a medium for self-expression.
In many essay books, Qu Yuan's leap into the river becomes a repetitive performance, and Xiang Yu's suicide becomes a cliché. They rise from the river and jump back in, raise their swords to commit suicide, over and over again. Truly remarkable writings are few and far between.
And so, I have grown fond of "Innovation Composition" magazine, simply for its motto: "Express true emotions, find your true self." That is what real writing should be.
Perhaps under pressure, I will continue to write those somewhat disingenuous essays for exams, but I will strive to write from my true self.
