I can’t really tell why I keep writing.
Not writing writing—writing is important and I need it. I mean writing these. Writing this. It feels like nobody will hear it. Maybe I’ll post it and people will read it, but nobody will listen to it. Maybe people will listen and hear what I say but dismiss the ramblings of an angsty kid exaggerating their emotional relationships. Maybe some would believe an out of line and out of mind maniac and their scribblings into immaterial papers, but maybe I’m just overthinking it all again.
After all, it’s hard to tell the truth. It’s hard to make a discussion of truth when the words don’t truly explain what’s happening. Perhaps I can use metaphor of a chemical mental sea or personified emotional murder or physical object dehumanization to pretend like the words are doing what I want them to do, but maybe they’re just wordplay. Maybe it’s not truly possible to feel stranded at sea within a landlocked room stuck deep within a desert. Maybe it’s not realistic to obsess over fake memories of killing representations of my feelings when I can still find them coming back to me in fleeting moments. Maybe it’s unnatural to visualize a made up story of a broken doll when I’d never taken care of my own possessions.
So I guess these are just the words of mental delusions. The complaints of a depressed young adult fighting expectations placed without consent. The nightmares of a psychotic medicated mess trying to pretend they know what they really feel. Maybe these are just useless letters sent anonymously with no meaning. Maybe they really are just nothing.
And there really is no “but.” No volta, no turn, no emotional reset to turn a dynamic character into something more. The truth at the end of these is that there never really was a truth. Each paragraph is crafted of romanticized language to make some problem stand out from the day to day life of achievements and ambition because someone out there can’t sit still with their thoughts running amok. It’s a fantasy constructed of the need to be heard.
And maybe that’s just all it is. Maybe it’s just to be heard. A cry from someone who can’t wake up without being pulled out of bed. A scream from someone who’s voice comes out as a quiet mewl under the surrounding megaphones of the lives of others. Maybe she can only really say two words. And maybe, next time, those two words shouldn’t be “It’s fine” or “Don’t worry” or “It’s over.”
Maybe they should be “It’s not.”
Or “I’m scared.”
Or “Help me.”
But instead, she stays quiet. She thinks there’s a possibility she can truly solve this all by herself. She believes that maybe some sort of predestined fate will turn out ok in the end. She understands she’ll just be tossed away if she says anything anyways. So instead she just stays quiet.
And writes down her hopes without a word.