Writing is like my purging ritual. Its a cathartic process, it makes me put things in perspective and get them out of my system. Its like crying for me, its got healing properties. But then there are some times that you just can’t express what you feel. Or that you have had enough of explaining or talking about urself in a world where nobody really listens. After all, this is a public platform, and used mostly to broadcast posts. But I have never really looked at my blog like that. Its my world where I share things that I don’t/can’t otherwise. Where I ramble without fear of judgement or prejudice. It may not be the truth, but i’m going to assume it to be true for a while. Most of my posts remain drafts because I’m never fully convinced of this thought. But today i’m going to assume and overlook. Otherwise this silence is can be numbing.
I really don’t have anything specific to talk about. I just want to talk. I want to tell things I have been cataloging in my memory for conversations that will never happen. I want to tell how happy I was when I got an unexpected birthday present I always wanted (a painting easel!), how happy I was when a friend posted an exceptionally nice birthday wish on my timeline, how sad I was when I realised I should have spent more time knowing this particular friend and being with her, how sad I was when a friend I really cherished slowly started to drift away from me. I want to share the anxiety that lurks just under my skin about my uncertain future, I want to share the accomplishment of finally finishing a big and much awaited part of my life, I want to share the fact that I have been unable to express my emotions with anyone for a while, that i’ve become very good at pretending. I want to talk about how I felt when I got rejected from one place after the other, but also about how nice I felt when I finally finished writing my thesis. I want to be able to explain the pain it is, still, to go to work to the same place everyday, and how I have made myself immune to that emotion now. I want to talk about every insignificant detail of my life, but I have not, not the things that really matter to me anyway. I was not like this, but I have changed, and its mostly for the better I guess. Its not necessary to talk about everything. You mostly just end up making a fool of yourself.
There are spaces within you that cannot be shared, healed, mended or removed. These spaces often contain a myriad of emotions and memories, but sometimes they overflow and get so crowded they start to die, leaving nothing at all.
There is no filling some voids. They will always be there. In all their nothingness. I need to accept that.