I don’t know what to write anymore. Or when. Or how. How many birthdays and new years have I promised myself I’d spend the next year writing again?
I feel like I write the same 4 things over and over. I feel like I’m tired of my own voice, my own thoughts. I’m tired of them looping over and over. I’m tired of leaving them underdeveloped. I’m tired of keeping them to myself.
How do I actually break out? Is it a dismantling? Is it truly one step at a time? Is it a leap? Do I break the glass? Do I tear the paper? Do I rip myself free? What will I destroy along the way? Who will I hurt? What will I have to leave behind? What will I gain? What will I create? What will I find? What will I heal?
I think about who I have been, who I could have been, who I wanted to be, who I had to be, who I needed to be, who I long to be, and all the differences and overlaps. Sometimes I don’t even feel like I am. I feel like a placeholder for my real self. Waiting for her to come back and take over. Waiting for the relief of being.
I think about the choices you don’t know you’re making when you’re making other choices.
I think about how tired I am of surviving. About how badly I want to be alive again.
