There are times when I feel like I want to pour my hearts out into words, but I can hardly do so. Sometimes, thoughts go by so fast, I didn’t have enough time to translate them into words. I can’t quite find the right words. I keep it all in my head. The writer’s block is so real, and just like unrequited love; the more you try to resist it, the more it happens. I try too hard to make something out of the obscure nothingness. I always do. I am afraid to speak. And there is really nothing worth saying sometimes.
I have forgotten how to feel. I made myself not feel.
What is the point of feeling so much and what does it bring me when I confront my feelings?
There is no passion and I do not long for anything. I fill the voids and pockets of time seeking excitement in life, to find meaning in nothing, to seek comfort in the unfathomable vacuum I have put myself in.
Because I have taught myself not to feel so much; be less in touch with feelings, be more in sync with reasons. Because I know I should keep things that people do not want to hear, and should not hear to myself.
And because there are so many things that you cannot tell anybody; and these are things that you sometimes have to hide from even yourself. You know they intimidate you.
How many of us are brave enough to always be wholly true to ourselves?
I miss being overwhelmed; like, in a way that I would totally forget to breathe if my body didn’t remind itself.
I want butterflies, I want somebody to drown me in a sea of passion, to hug me so tight it hurts but I’d still want more. To be pushed into a corner, to fear the uncertainties, to tremble in pleasure or terror. To have something to long for, something to look forward to, to see sparks. To be put on the edge, to talk, to have a really heated argument.
To feel. You reminded me that I need to feel something.
I want to implode, and then explode.
Really. Anything but this vast, cold, terrifying limbo.
Aren’t you afraid to lose me? Because I am afraid I’d lose myself.
6 a.m. I am in my room, in the dark, eyes closed, cigarette in my left hand, Mad About You at maximum volume. And I am swaying to the music.
It’s all good.
But I know it will only be for a while.