I’m Writing About Something Again
I stumbled upon some old essays I’d written in 2018/2019 for a blog focused on human stories with an emphasis on positive perspectives (or something like that) It’s bizarre how malleable we are as people and how we can find ourselves cringing at the us-es of the recent past, even if that us is only two or three years behind the current curve.
I don’t have a very positive perspective, generally. Not anymore, at least. But it’s cool to think that I did at one point in my life!! (I also used to be really into musical theatre though, so). Props to that guy!
I’m not sure what my perspective is now. It just is. I look around and find it hard to generate a thought, a feeling, an opinion on much. It’s exhausting! Too many things out there to worry about; might feel easier to just...not? No thoughts, only vibes. I don’t know. I say this knowing that I also constantly vibrate with tension generated solely from the necessity of making infinite miniscule choices on a daily basis.
I think there are a few reasons why I’m writing about something again. One is that I live in constant fear of anonymity, not establishing myself as more than just a momentary blip on the radar, a drop in the ocean, a singular speck of dust floating through space. Lol.
Another is that I’m finding it increasingly necessary to create a more tangible record of what the fuck is going on in my brain rather than just shouting things out loud just to lead them float away to disappear into the void.
Another is that I think I’ve completely lost my ability to adequately communicate with another human being due to my brain being broken from the seismic changes surrounding me (and the human race) for the past two years. Like, revoke my empath card, I think it’s getting that bad.
Another is that I find it incredibly euphoric to stumble upon someone describing an insanely particular feeling that I’ve also experienced but didn’t have the words for. Maybe when I write about weirdly specific things, someone reading will feel that too. I’ll start with some of those feelings and see what happens, I guess.
Right now I’m processing some heavy things that feel extra heavy only because they’re not my things to hold and no one asked me to hold them. Yet I somehow find myself holding them? I tend to think that all of these proximity mines that go off around me are hurting me even if the shrapnel can’t even reach me, but maybe the shock wave is just making me feel super not good? And maybe I feel like I have to tiptoe to avoid stepping on my own?
It’s hard to ask for sympathy too when it’s not even my problem, per-se. I’m just on the periphery of it. And the burning desire for comfort, knowing full-well that precious resources like sympathy, understanding, and caretaking may be redirected from the scene of the explosion starts to singe my arm hair a little bit when the guilt reaches me in my spectator’s seat. Will I simply pass away from lack of attention (i.e. Tinkerbell fainting and withering away)? Let’s hope not.