My little cousin used to cry when I punched him in the arm
now he laughs
Guys am weak now.
now he laughs
Guys am weak now.
😁2
You know how sometimes you write just to fill the void, using words to patch up spaces you know can never really be filled? Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing. Maybe I wanted to write a little to make my life feel a little more interesting, even though I haven’t truly mastered the art of writing and maybe I never will. But I can see it now how often I string words together, not because I have something to say, but because I have spaces that need covering.
I talk a lot for someone with so much anxiety. And yet it’s in my silence that I feel the most peace. Writing doesn’t fix that emptiness it just acts like it does. It’s a shield. It’s the way I pretend I’m not scared of the blank spaces inside me.
When I first started my midnight doodling, I realized it too. I couldn’t sleep, so I filled a journal with drawings. But even then, they felt empty. I tried painting one red still empty. Still felt like it needed an explanation. At first I thought the act of creating meant I had something inside me to express. But now, I wonder what if everything I’ve ever written about myself weren’t memories at all just images I imagined? What if the words weren’t records, but roadmaps? What if I wasn’t writing to say what happened, but to fill in who I think I am or might be?
Maybe all of this the words the drawings the explanations are my way of making a picture complete. Because the truth is, I have an undying urge to explain myself. To explain everything. Not because people don’t believe me, but because, deep down I don’t believe I’ll ever be understood if I don’t explain every step. It’s like there’s an impostor living inside me whispering that a picture alone isn’t enough, that I have to add words, PowerPoints, swears, proofs anything to hug the picture close and convince someone, anyone, that it’s real.
And maybe in the process I prove that to my own self too.
I talk a lot for someone with so much anxiety. And yet it’s in my silence that I feel the most peace. Writing doesn’t fix that emptiness it just acts like it does. It’s a shield. It’s the way I pretend I’m not scared of the blank spaces inside me.
When I first started my midnight doodling, I realized it too. I couldn’t sleep, so I filled a journal with drawings. But even then, they felt empty. I tried painting one red still empty. Still felt like it needed an explanation. At first I thought the act of creating meant I had something inside me to express. But now, I wonder what if everything I’ve ever written about myself weren’t memories at all just images I imagined? What if the words weren’t records, but roadmaps? What if I wasn’t writing to say what happened, but to fill in who I think I am or might be?
Maybe all of this the words the drawings the explanations are my way of making a picture complete. Because the truth is, I have an undying urge to explain myself. To explain everything. Not because people don’t believe me, but because, deep down I don’t believe I’ll ever be understood if I don’t explain every step. It’s like there’s an impostor living inside me whispering that a picture alone isn’t enough, that I have to add words, PowerPoints, swears, proofs anything to hug the picture close and convince someone, anyone, that it’s real.
And maybe in the process I prove that to my own self too.
❤3
And sometimes that writing is a cringy poem thing to fill out the thing
❤2