wailing 

i’ve stopped writing.

this piece, this rant—whatever it is—is the first time i have written in months. the words used to flood out of my body—vomit uncontrollably out of my mouth so that my notes app and google docs were transformed into digital libraries of half formed thoughts and unfinished poems. hundreds of abandoned essays, thousands of unsent letters on life, on love, on you. millions of characters served tribute; one for every passing moment of my existence. i recorded my entire being through literature; stopping my writing feels as if i myself have stopped—

nowadays, the sentences just dont seem to come. nothing feels instinctual. every phrase is too thought out; every utterance feels a sin. my fingers hesitate, rigid above the keyboard, and i find myself pausing to think about what to say for a few seconds too long. i don’t know what to write. i dont know how to write. i feel as if i have lost the ability to breathe.  

i think that this might be due to my knowledge of self. or actually, lack thereof, which is a new and unwelcome feeling. too long was depression inexorably tied with my identity; too long was the creativity that came with it the defining figure of my character. in plato's cave, locked in my room, i was all knowing and omniscient. every day, i would come up with beautifully strange ideas that those outside of the abyss could never see. i found love in the shapes in the shadows, drew worldly conclusions from the cracks in my wallpaper, and discovered true meaning from the lines on my wood panelled floor. i was insightful; intuitive; creative. it hurts to think that i might have lost the ability to delve deep into my being by simply choosing happiness.

i miss the awareness of all ten toes. the realness of reality fades with my depression; my old understanding and welcoming of impending death gave me a type of lucidity—a clarity of mind that i had never experienced before, and will likely never experience again lest i allow myself to foolishly succumb. i miss the innateness of it all; i feel illusioned and overly blissful.

  i miss the extreme highs and lows, whiplash every month from changes in my mood. i was the protagonist, antagonist, confidant, and deuteragonist in a show with no one but me. i was the spectacle! the event of the night, every night.  proximity to death made life so much more visceral. it made it true, even though im not sure if it was. everything feels boring. i feel boring.

in an attempt to regain such clarity without sacrificing my newfound contentment, i resort to customizing my character as if designing an avatar in a video game. i dye my hair, paint my nails, and pray that i might look in the mirror one day and finally recognize the one who looks back. usually, it works, but just not well enough. so i look to my mentors. sometimes to literal ones, sometimes simply to philosophical texts so they might help me like they have in the past. camus, lorde, butler—all who have once before revealed to me aspects of myself i was originally unaware of. none seem to click as they used to.

in class, my desperation begins to show. i cry when the pieces don’t resonate, panic in discussions, and grow ever more fearful that this time, the sophists cannot help me like they have before. the words used to flow so freely. likely because the philosophers we read were just as melodramatic as i was at 15, and i played the role well. do i have to feel so to be good at this? that feels in character for the field. does philosophy inherently make you sad, or is it just that being so makes you more receptive to the maudlin rhetoric of the field? funny, i think i finally understand descartes. i digress. i beg others to tell me what texts have changed their lives so that past philosophers might have an answer for me as they have had for them. i think my classmates think i am insane. i think i am beginning to agree.

i try to write. like i do now, i attempt to pen myself into existence; deconstruct my personality like any author of a book would do to their lead. i analyze and reanalyze my thoughts and actions so that i might be able to define and redefine myself the way that fate meant me to be. i write, i erase. i write, i re-erase. write, erase. write, re-erase.

this feels disgustingly melodramatic, and i relish in the familiarity. this feeling is why i write.  look at me—wailing at nobody. its a slippery slope. maybe im trying to excuse my temptations to succumb. is this for attention? for pity? is this a cry for help? a hope that someone will tell me to stop? that someone can understand? that someone can answer? why am i writing at all? 

this feels counterproductive. life feels counterintuitive. i think it is my writing at all that is the issue. look, i’ve come full circle. 

i think i should stop.