The canvas is empty. You start typing at random words that pass through the crevices of your mind. Somewhere inside that mind of yours is a story. It could be your story.
You write, you don’t know why but you do it. It is an escape. You have always considered writing an escape from the world. It put things into perspective. Or so you wanted to believe. It made you often wonder what was the point of it. Something was pulling at you and you did not protest it. You wrote because you thought that it mattered, it counted for something. Even if you passed through days on autopilot, having written something made you not feel so lazy and aimless. For you were writing. And writing meant doing. After hitting that publish button you sent something into the world. You put together these sentences as an offering to the world.
Lately, you’ve been feeling vacant, an emptiness that made you inert. You have consumed so much of this life. It was only fair that you gave something in return.
Life seemed a tragic absurdity to you. And that was the scary part. Therefore, you were left with two choices.
- Live and struggle and be vulnerable and love. Grow as a person, and become part of a community.
Or the opposite.
2. Be a recluse, a loner, bury yourself alive in isolation and imagination. Forsake the world. Forsake your place in it and give up.
When you were left by yourself, you dreaded the silence but you also dreaded the possibility of things taking a change.
Were you self-sabotaging yourself all along?
Feels like it.
It was weird for when you were around people, you craved silence. You craved to abandon society. All you wanted was to shield yourself from the world and the preying eyes. You wanted to stop pretending that everything was all right, or that you enjoyed any of it. You were putting up a front, a façade in front of others. You felt like an impostor, every brand new day a new scene to act. For how long would you be able to play the part?
How exhausting it was to be. That’s what’s been on your mind. It’s exhausting to be a person, a being. To process and to accept and to belong and to live. It was no easy task. It was a journey full of complicated turns and stop signs. The road was never truly straight, it took you a while to realize what you wanted out of life. And the realization was so simple. You wanted for it to stop. And yet when you were left alone, and the world was not imposing on you. When there were no expectations or pretense, you quite enjoyed the solitude, and being alive wasn’t that unbearable.
You have been scared of living. And that supposedly robbed you of the ability to experience humanity.
Avoiding the problem would never solve it in the first place. And you’ve been avoiding the world and your place in it. You’ve been avoiding responsibility. Being an adult scared you and having to become someone made you fearful of what was to come. But you were not the only one, and yet that thought or all the others that came with it did not alleviate that fear.
You were a product of the world, and you wondered how and why, for you were clearly a stranger in it.
It was a new day, and you made nothing of it (except write the above).
