I feel like I’ve been searching in me for something to write. I’ve tapped into what’s inside, trying to scribble it out into a poem or the like, just for the sake of writing something. Needless to say, I failed (several times over).
Then I considered that hey, that could be a good thing. There’s no grief for me to romanticize into pretty words and allusions to nature. But then I looked again, reflecting deeper, looking for anything.
I was empty.
It’s a haunting thing, to look back and notice that you’ve been caught up in a soul-deadening routine of willing your day to end and willing your week to end and forgetting that that’s your life running by. When your insides are carved out and hollow, there’s much room for you to sink into some depth of anxiety, one that forces you to look and see what a horrible person you’ve become, you and all that dwells inside you, you, and your dark, twisted envy.
I don’t know whether I’m able to snap out of this, or whether I’d grown accustomed to being constricted. It has been a while since I genuinely laughed, and far too long since I just had fun. It’s selfish, considering that I could be living my best life right now, with more blessings than I can count. But I’m longing for laughter and freedom and a new breath in my lungs. I long, and I can’t forgive myself for that.
There’s a lot I can’t seem to forgive myself for, wanting being the main thing. I never allow myself to want anything so much, because I can’t bear the thought of not getting it after that. This void inside me I carved out myself, digging out faults in every single thing that excites me, or that I long for, or that I aspire to be. I fear rejection dreadfully, and loss, so much that I want always to maintain things as they are, that I purposefully convince myself that I can’t do it, or that I don’t really want it. There are external restrictions, too, but I avoid defying them because I don’t really want it, or because I can’t really do it. It’s hard to fight for something you’re indifferent about.
There’s such a complexity in being human. Throughout this post, I’ve called my inside an empty void, but it also is a mess of thoughts and worries and gratitude and joy and brokenness. Being left with my thoughts is frightening, like a heavy, awkward meeting with a half-stranger. So I savor the emptiness when it comes, and I can’t tell if I love myself or if I hate her, but I want that emptiness to stop being an amplifier of my thoughts. I want it to transform into a stillness, into a symbol of peace within. I want it to give me room to ignite, to burn up and down with what I love should I find it.
I want peace and forgiveness, and a burning will to see all that life could offer.