~ 11/18/10

I really want to start writing again. I remember five-six years ago writing until 3am or being woken by my heart that so desperately needed to speak. Now, whenever I try to open myself up, my mind gets in the way. It tells me my words are not enough, I'll always be inferior to those who express themselves effortlessly, and I'll never recapture the passion I once I had in my writing. I have become so afraid of what I used to love, of what used to be such a big part of me. It's sad I can't simply write for myself. I need the constant encouragement and approval of others, distant or near, it doesn't make the slightest difference, it all blends together. When I don't have it, I seek it. When I can't see it, I am determined to find it. I search high and low, and even when I find what I am looking for, I toss it aside. It's just never enough.

 

What it boils down to is that I need to not think, seek, or try. I simply need to feel. But my mind will always be my worst enemy. Backspace and delete will accompany the doubt. I will never hear my heart over the chaos in my head, the thoughts I so desperately want to change or erase.

 

Since I don’t have the energy to pull out all the thoughts, memories, and feelings that have accumulated over the years, I’ll never let go of anything. I’ll file pieces of my world away daily and watch myself explode. I’ll continuously become overwhelmed. I’ll break into a million pieces and combust due to massive overload. I need what used to be my therapy, yet how can I possibly regain what I never had, since all this time, my self-identity rested upon negative notions and temporary obsessions.

 

My age merely represents my time on earth; it doesn’t define the condition of my soul, which is underdeveloped, all far from a new discovery. The little girl yearns to unload her baggage in a place she can call home. Her shoulders are beginning to sag; the pressure is wearing on her. Her back isn't strong enough to withstand the bitter cold and cruelty of the world. She is brittle, swallows her tears, and breaks down and reassembles herself each day, secretly wondering if her inner battle is visible to those who know her.

 

She was never taught how to live. She was never prepared for this, for all the struggling and work, and for all the energy life would take and drain from her. She was never taught how to rise above adversity. She was never given the key to rescue herself from the box she locked herself in so many years ago. After she dug her hole, she was never given the shovel needed to unbury herself. She wasn't told all the pain, the dirt, and the tears would eventually strengthen her fragility. Her biggest mistake is not realizing all these things can't be taught or given, yet must be learned with the experience she never had, since you never let her fly. But she is now an adult and must take responsibility. She needs to grow up before she can heal her heart.

 

As an adult, my ill heart tumbles and settles at the bottom of my stomach while my mind continues to tell me lies regarding myself and the world around me. If this continues, I may sink so far down inside myself, I'll disintegrate. I will, however, gather enough strength to find my way inside a space of any troubled heart, and become lost there. I hope to be all out consumed by the desire to repair you; I want to drown so I don't have to focus on myself.