posted on 31 Oct 2023

It is now October of 2023. Writing this, the feeling is coming up again. That there is no point to this. That I have nothing to say. Nothing substantive. The inclination comes up as I remember my past and how I felt at one point writing, and then before my finger even hits the first key, it collapses into nothingness. I become devoid of all desire to share my thoughts. Things are not what I thought they were. The inside cannot be exposed to the outside.

I’d say that pattern has characterized the past 6 months or so of my life. Where there was once hope, there is now a void when it comes to writing. And still, I fear that my work will never come to fruition. But this is not as much of a concern now; the concern is now more metaphysical. Something abrupt and unwelcomed has come about it in me, and I am incapable of controlling it.

Fall has always been my favorite time of the year. Finally, a break from the relentless beating of the sun and the heat. And a transformation taking place in the outside world. Coincidentally, major transformations always take place inside of me during this time. Past autumns are the seasons that I remember most. The memories are always more vivid and coincide with impressions of the changing colors of the leaves and the crisp, cool air. They are linked.

I look forward to this period. This time around, it’s going too fast. While I was morbidly depressed this time last year, hardly unable to leave my house, this time I am numb. It’s the anti-depressants. It must be. They took away that feeling of walking around like I was skinned alive and instead replaced it with complacency and a state of neutrality. Dare I say this is worse. My memory is shot; I am simply living without recording. The pain of this is nearly unbearable, yet I am unable to fully feel it. It’s far off in the distance and I can’t pull it in. I can only intellectualize it. I can only feel yearnings and longing for melancholy without embodying it.

There is some good news. I’ve realized my state of self-paralysis when it comes to creating is entirely self-imposed and runs parallel to certain mindsets that I’ve ingrained in myself. I’ve passed the point of no return in some sense. As I reflect on my journey of starting out with writing and the euphoria I felt from compartmentalizing this creative aspect of my life I failed to nurture which could be protected from the disgusting consumerist, hyper-productive outside world, I realize that those two dichotomies began to merge. And this resulted in an inability and a paralysis. Because what was once sacred and contained became contaminated. It started to be controlled by outside forces.

I must let go. This is the only way forward. A state of stasis has overcome me for too long now and I need to break out of it. Because I refuse to waste any more of my life like this. I’m only getting older and the seconds are decaying relentlessly. What will I have one day when I look back besides surface-level survival?

Because I feel like I am fragmented. Because I feel like I am no longer aware of the fact that I am alive and have my own will. This cannot possibly be the natural progression of my life. Why can’t I get a firm grip on it? It’s so powerful - this inert force that has seemed to overtake me - that I cannot tear it away. But it must be destroyed. I want to destroy it. I want it to be decimated until there is no proof that it ever existed.

Destruction is the only thing that can cure evil.

I have been lying to myself for who knows how long now. I thought I was self-aware, that I had things figured out. But I was deluded. And that is the scariest realization: that I am so susceptible to my own fucking bullshit. This hits so hard that it leaves me almost breathless.

The only question is: where does this leave me now?

Categories:  #essays