I dare to call myself a writer even when words don’t come out of me anymore.
Even in the darkest times now, I cling to nostalgia and loneliness and not a single word is typed. I let it drag myself away, and don’t even think about cleaning myself through writing.
Even when joy shakes me up and I can feel the whole universe, its vast immensity, running all the way to my fingertips, I let the feeling fade away and not a single word is typed.
So here I lie, renewed nonsense as I ever have been, feeling lost and ignorant of what I am, of what I should do. Here I lie, pouring down and stumbling and trying to figure out which was the moment and time where I let myself think I could do anything. Poor child.
Maybe I’m just nothing. Perhaps I’m just meant to die on a permanent state of starting, born without the capacity to ever lead anything to its end. Incapable of becoming a writer, a singer, a director, a drawer, an artist. Maybe it’s just that. Maybe I should just give up to a mediocre life, a mediocre career, an untalented absurd like everyone else. How did I ever dare to think I could be special?
Because I move around the world projecting glimpses of all these feelings that form me, and I see people mesmerized by them, I see them listen and understand and believe it's art. And even I know there is no such way of expressing my whole self at once, I can’t help feeling that I’m just creating an artificial image, just a mere mask of the part of me that I know will make them like me. I feel false.
And I really wish I could find a way to explain everything I am to the world.
You see, I find myself feeling such a strange intensity all the time. It’s like I can’t feel something on a moderate way, everything in me just bursts out with colours and wind and I just sometimes can’t handle it. Even the numbness I get inside sometimes makes me shiver out of its strength. It just doesn’t make sense.
Out of everything I’ve been told about me, I think the most beautiful one is that I am absolutely full of love. And I am, I really am, I love it all. I am deeply, hopelessly in love with everything that exists and I can feel in any way. I am a sponge, craving with the need of getting full of anything that can be given to me. Any image, any feeling, any sound just flows through me and makes me explode with joy and passion.
And I just love that part of me, you know? Because it gets me so excited about the whole world, it makes me live intensely and feel such great emotions about life and about the people I am surrounded with. And I just don’t know why can’t that be just completely true, why can’t that be everything there is inside me.
Because I would really like to know why there has to be so much pain and sadness coexisting with all that love, corrupting the passion and the happiness with self-hatred and guilt and tediousness. Is there really a need for all that poison inside my body? I just hate the way it rots me inside, because it tears all the good away, it really does. And no matter how hard I try it just drags me, I can’t help it, and for a moment I lose it all.
It drags me away and I lose myself, and no matter the reason that causes it, no matter if it lasts for an hour or two not even my limbs feel mine anymore. It scares me so much.
It’s funny how my world always finds the way to keep collapsing out of this same old constant tension. It’s like I am damned to live divided, and writing about it makes me feel crazy. I guess all of this is because I sometimes wonder if there’s any hope. Like I can’t find the way to decide if this that I am feeling makes me a deep person or just an insane one. Like I really want to know if everything I am, everything that makes me this way and everything I’m feeling is valid.
But is it?
And even so, what does it matter if I can't find a way to transform all of those feelings into something existing, something to give and share? What the hell does it matter if I am not a writer, a singer, a director, a drawer? What the fuck do I do with all that joy, all that love, all that pain and self-hatred I've got bursting out from my entrails if I am not capable of just transforming them into something real as I've always seen other people do?
I'm useless, you see, I'm nothing.