I can’t write anymore. Nor can I express myself the way I used to.
It was always such a thoughtless endeavour; I would write what I felt, and that would be that. Looking back at what I have written before - the way I used to express myself - I can see so clearly the discrepancies in my communication. And, honestly, it hurts. It aches. It makes me feel lost, alone, treading on treacherous ground. My self-worth has been, for so many years, so heavily based on my ability to communicate, to express my (outspoken) thoughts.
But now - it’s gone. Nothing, nada, gone.
In conversation, the words no longer flow. thoughts and ideas I used to express with ease, in great detail, are diminished to mumbling bullshit; to me trailing off, feeling and looking forlorn and frustrated at the absence of the words I used to know, ideas I have previously expressed but no longer can, arguments I used to inhabit with great ease but now evade me as if it was an art of its own.
I feel that at this particular moment I am writing with much more eloquence than I have managed in months. I think, partially, it is because I am drunk; I think the other part is due to spending the evening with people that have known me from before my cognitive dissonance, and well before the words left me with little ceremony (and much distress). The presence of people who know, and have known, my capability with words, in contrast to the person I am now - who sits, mid-conversation, anguishing over a word she cannot (for the life of her!!) find, is amazing, purely because I no longer feel I have to prove myself.
Instead, I only feel I need to live up to my history - which is daunting in itself, but seems much more achievable than making a grand-spanking-brilliant-new impression on people I want to love and appreciate me for my own ideas and beliefs and brilliance - more than I have felt in a long time.
I feel so incredibly inadequate compared to the people I surround myself with. People who, with no effort whatsoever, express such complex, coherent arguments and ideas that it leaves me breathless and bewildered, unwilling to even try, because doing so will make me the fool.
It feels like a love affair. For so many years I have been in love with words; their poetry, their beauty, their evocative nature; and for all the time I have loved them and their beauty, with honesty, integrity and intimacy, they have betrayed me. They have left me scrambling in the dirt with nothing to show for it, and I now feel like I am desperately digging down to prove that really - I promise, I’m sure! - they were here before, and I don’t know, really, I’ve no idea where they’ve gone, and yes, at one point they were here, I promise..
My heart aches for what it used to know. It aches for what it feels and can no longer express. It aches for the loss of intimacy through the loss of words. It aches for being diminished to expressing itself through bland, treacherous metaphors that only brush the surface of what it feels - what it knows. It aches for that tip-of-the-tongue feeling, so similar to the moment before a kiss, when you know in the most primal way that what is is as it should be; but it can’t always be expressed in that absence, that space in between.
It reduces me to more primal, baser instincts. It makes me want to touch, kiss, fuck, because I can’t find the words to express anything any more delicately than I could through my mouth or my fingertips, which feel like they have the weight of the world in them in absence of my words. Every touch is heavy as a gravestone and imbued with even more meaning, as it is all there is; all my words, all their beauty, all their love are condensed into one little movement; fingertips brushing another’s, their weight on your spine, aching to tell you what my words no longer can.
God, please, let me kiss you.
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