My Pen with Dried Ink

I can't write.

It's not your typical writer's block. In fact, words are flowing if not pouring out, matching my steady stream of thoughts normally fragmented. Instead, my tongue is tied because I can't bring myself to materialize these thoughts in fear. I'm afraid of the consequences. I am scared of feeling too vulnerable and exposed because they are private. I don't want anyone feeling singled out as I document their presence or absence. I am terrified of writing because it means that everything becomes tangible and real.

You may think that all of these things can be avoided if I kept a private journal or somehow made these entries unavailable. The truth is that this would be unsatisfactory. Call me an exhibitionist if you must, but I believe that making these things public is a integral piece of expression. The writer scribbles his words not for the sole reason of showing others, but he prepares for the possibility of their being read. Even with a limited, or even imaginary audience, these entries are as intimate as locked eyes or a close embrace. Because the truth is that all I want is to feel that I am not alone-- that I'm not this oddity, a walking abomination, a fucking train wreck.

But I am alone. I haven't decided whether that's a good or a bad thing. It may be both or neither.

So I'm stuck here.
Writing about how I am unable write.

My State of Sadness

It was brought to my attention tonight that when I talk about sadness, I tend to be vague. This took me a little by surprise because it wasn't always this way. After thinking about it however, I realized that it's true. More importantly, it dawned to me that it sort of makes sense.

Yes, I've got sadness running through me.

For no particular reasons that I can think of other than hormonal imbalances, I've got lots of it. It's a fundamental part of my being. It is responsible for my heightened ability to empathize. It's my creative driving force, materialized by each and every step that I take and every sentence that I struggle to construct. I embrace it and sometimes thrive on it. Absolutely and unnecessarily painful, I live my mundane life as if it were the cinematic sequence where a supporting character walks away cradling his unrequited love. But this makes me better because I continue to live in a constant state of dissatisfaction that leaves me hungry. Hungry not like the obese woman in a stroller going back to the buffet for her fifth plate (sometimes that too) but hungry with and for a hope that there's always room for improvement.

Yet I choose to keep the sources of my welcomed illness to myself. Or better yet, I am perfectly able to articulate them and the consequences that they have on me with eery emotional detachment as if I were narrating in a third person. The truth is: people leave. And I leave. So you tell me what the fuck the point is. They're much more prized and in-tact locked inside my head. Maybe I'm afraid that the sadness could be cured. In fact, I know that it can disappear-- it has before.

I'm not ashamed of the multiple sides of me that make up my being. If I were, I would not proudly exhibit it through my writing. Although these entries are not written for validation, I am well aware of eyes that skim through them (yes, yours.) I encourage, if not crave for people to understand how I think. It's rewarding when someone makes an accurate remark about me that I've never thought about before.

But know that these thoughts are mine, and mine only.
And so is my sadness, regardless of the things and people who have caused them.