Nameless Thoughts

“I wanted to write down exactly what I felt but somehow the paper stayed empty.

And I could not have described it any better.”

I survived my first year of college. This last semester was a lot. Life, in general, has been a lot. I could rant about college and all the obstacles that were faced (such as falling down stairs and getting a concussion), but I have other things to ramble about.

In fact, currently, five drafts for a new post lay unfinished on this site… some only miss a conclusion, others barely have the first sentence.

One draft is a conversation between myself and the mirror: I tell you how the mirror drags me in every morning to tell me violent words and then it stalks me in every reflection and how I see it most clearly in the reflection of the eyes of people I love. I tell you how I avoid the mirror with all my strength and how it shatters and plants itself inside my body so that every move and every breath I take is a fight. I tell you how I fight the mirror every day because I know that it must be wrong. I even let you know that most days, I lose.

Another draft reveals how I am having trouble finding home. This draft talks about how home is where the heart is, but my heart has been so shattered by life that it is scattered in a thousand different places; and if it is in a thousand places –  which place is home? And where is home when my heart shuts down?

The Pitfalls of a People Pleaser considers the ways I am afraid of failing people. This draft exposes my fear that if I fail people they will give up on me; it tells how what I’m really afraid of is failing myself and that one-day people will see me the way I see myself.

The draft about how I am dealing with life is completely blank.

The last draft, titled “A Love Story”, is a letter from my depression. It only has one sentence: “I can’t stand you.”

The topics of these drafts seem to vary and yet are exactly the same.

I have so much to talk about, I just don’t know how to say it.

I’m feeling so much, yet I am feeling nothing at all.

I feel like a blank piece of paper that used to be covered in writing… it’s all been erased, but I’m covered in eraser shavings and if you squint or look at the right angle, you can see what used to be written. I’m a blank piece of paper that people have told me will be made into a masterpiece… yet I look at myself with all my marks and indents and eraser shavings and all I see is the piece of paper I would rip out of my sketchbook and throw away because it’s no good anymore, it’s too messed up.

I guess it’s okay then, that I’m only a mediocre artist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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