July 13th, 2012

i found that during the summer, i wrote a lot in the middle of the night, because it was so quiet, and i was finally able to think.

The trouble with people who write, is that there are always words flowing through their brains, through their hearts, through their veins and arteries. No matter what the situation is, a person who writes can always feel loneliness radiating through everyone's souls, through the empty part of the cafeteria, to the people who eat alone, isolated from everyone else. Sometimes they can't find the words to describe the loneliness they can feel, through the actions of others. sometimes there aren't enough words. 

When a person becomes a writer because they needed to let go of their sadness, their feelings run out. or rather, their sentences are all used, their words redundant in every single poem, every single journal entry they write. It gets to be tiring, to even pick up that pencil, to write a simple creative sentence, filled with imagery and carefully chosen vocabulary, as well as adding in a simile or two. It takes work for them now. It's no longer easy to write down what's in the core of their hearts. It turns into a struggle that they never imagined they would encounter.

Sometimes, at night, that feeling of sadness emerges, just as it usually does during the day. only now, they can't sleep it off. they can't shut their eyes, think of something or someone they love, and soundlessly fall asleep. For one thing, what else do they love other than writing? Secondly, they spend a lot of their time writing about the person they love, about their mistakes, the words they uttered in affection, the laughs they allowed to pass through their lips, the way their skin touched the writer's, and how it made them feel loved and important. They remember the fights, the words they each uttered, filled with anger and frustration. They remembered how at the end of the day, they still cared for that person. How can you sleep when you love someone like that?

It is 4 in the morning, on the east side of the world. I am awake. I click and clack away at my laptop, in the dark, while I try to think of ways to release this pent up pain. I don't understand how I can be upset, when nothing in particular triggered it. I don't know how many words I can use to free myself of feeling numb. To be completely honest, I can't feel my pain. I can't understand it, because I can't feel it. I assume that it's not there. but it probably is. I want to say I am tired, but there are people who battle things worse than this, their whole lives. It makes me feel frail. weak. fragile. worthless.

I no longer have anything to say. I am too sad to think of what else to say. I feel my heart sinking into my stomach, and I just want to cry hot tears, and allow them to continuously run down my face. I just want the person I love to be here, and hold me while I fall asleep. I am too sad to think.