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
Scribe your soul out
And sometimes that writing is a cringy poem thing to fill out the thing
What if every touch
left something in my hand,
echoing tiny waves etched in ink?
Each finger remembers a goodbye too soft to speak
some breaks, some blurred, some empty,
some still a bit scared.
Something kind bleeds into the lines,
spreads like pink across the page.
And in the spaces untouched, the voids between swells,
I trace the ones who slipped through
before I could love them enough.
I carry them still on the quiet of my arms,
whispers of what was,
fading but never gone.
left something in my hand,
echoing tiny waves etched in ink?
Each finger remembers a goodbye too soft to speak
some breaks, some blurred, some empty,
some still a bit scared.
Something kind bleeds into the lines,
spreads like pink across the page.
And in the spaces untouched, the voids between swells,
I trace the ones who slipped through
before I could love them enough.
I carry them still on the quiet of my arms,
whispers of what was,
fading but never gone.
🥰3❤1❤🔥1
Forwarded from Scattered skull.
one day you won’t disappear again. You won’t cut it short. One day, you won’t overthink it until it eats you alive. Maybe one day, you’ll feel sane just a little more normal to yourself. Everything you have won’t feel unfamiliar. You’ll embody it. You won’t run from it.
It’s yours. It always has been. And maybe it’s time to stop looking at it like an open casket, as if mourning something that was never lost. She is alive. She breathes. She isn’t stuck. She’s still here.
Stop seeing her as a second person.
It’s yours. It always has been. And maybe it’s time to stop looking at it like an open casket, as if mourning something that was never lost. She is alive. She breathes. She isn’t stuck. She’s still here.
Stop seeing her as a second person.
Am out of chocolates too
I finished a questionable amount of it.
No wonder I have no appetite.
I finished a questionable amount of it.
No wonder I have no appetite.
❤1🙏1
Scribe your soul out
You know on New GirlSchmidt has a jar for different kinds of stupid things he does. I am going to start doing something similar. The money would go somewhere I will think about where but I will make sure not to use it for my own needs. Whenever I procrastinate…
Need to bring this thing back but this time it will have the same theme Schmidt had “douchebag jar”
It should be a thing.
It should be a thing.
Can I crawl back into your skin for a moment?
Can I immerse myself in those familiar sensations once more, feeling alive and whole again?
Is there something fundamentally wrong with me, a glitch in my being that I can’t quite grasp?
Won't I ever understand this suffocating feeling that persists, pressing down from within?
Am I truly hopeless forever trapped in this cycle?
Why do my fingers keep typing, pouring out thoughts that seem like endless echoes in a void?
Why do I wanna go back?
Am I simply out of original ideas, or am I chasing a shadow of inspiration that evades me?
Was that peak I felt
a moment of clarity and joy
just a fleeting flash, lost in the fog?
Was that the only way I could ever experience true ecstasy, or is there more to uncover?
Or do I just love and live for the attention?
Can I immerse myself in those familiar sensations once more, feeling alive and whole again?
Is there something fundamentally wrong with me, a glitch in my being that I can’t quite grasp?
Won't I ever understand this suffocating feeling that persists, pressing down from within?
Am I truly hopeless forever trapped in this cycle?
Why do my fingers keep typing, pouring out thoughts that seem like endless echoes in a void?
Why do I wanna go back?
Am I simply out of original ideas, or am I chasing a shadow of inspiration that evades me?
Was that peak I felt
a moment of clarity and joy
just a fleeting flash, lost in the fog?
Was that the only way I could ever experience true ecstasy, or is there more to uncover?
Or do I just love and live for the attention?
❤2💔1
I may seem dead on the outside, but don’t be fooled by my awkwardness it’s just a mask. I am a hopeless romantic who is very avoidant. Deep down, there’s something inside me that feeds on all the hope and romance.
I just don't know what else to feed it, so it takes all the good things.
I just don't know what else to feed it, so it takes all the good things.
❤5