There are times when the idea of writing about my thoughts seems futile. It is undoubtedly a powerful way for me to express them, but words don’t have the power to change anything. They don’t restore relationships, fingers on a keyboard won’t alleviate pain, and a journal entry can’t bring me happiness. No matter how many pages I fill, that emptiness remains, and now I am grappling with the notion that there might not even be a point in trying.
Language is inherently limited, and I struggle to morph it into a shape that accurately reflects the depth of my own human experiences. The intricacies of my internalised reality surpass what I am able to display externally. All the ink I’ve wasted on countless sheets of paper, and there’s nothing to show for it. These words aren’t my salvation, they are only a testament to my lowest moments. Even the very act of writing seems inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. In the face of the brevity of our life, I wonder if writing any of this even matters. Not in some childish existential manner, but in the genuine sense that I am unsure if my words hold any real significance or if they are merely fleeting expressions. It doesn’t matter much in the end because the right sequence of words cannot change a thing.
Here now, I’m but a wanderer astray,
In shadow cast by your departing flame.
The void that’s left, a chasm I must sway,
A gentle melody replaced by pain.
I’ve even resorted to iambic pentameter to get my point across. You’d think I’d have lost my wife and children to the fucking plague. This brings up an interesting point though, about how pain is subjective. Its intensity and perception varies greatly from person to person, and although two situations may seem wildly different, neither should be invalidated nor should the amount of pain be diminished by the specific circumstances surrounding it. Emotional pain is extremely complex, and the impact it has on our wellbeing is totally down to the individual in question. It’s all based on our personal experience.
Deep down I know that all of this is just a bunch of lingering childhood trauma with some hefty attachment issues (also childhood trauma). The blog isn’t a waste of time, neither are my other writing places, as they provide catharsis as emotional outlets. They let me explore my feelings in a safe way, and the self-expression has positive benefits in the sense that it makes me feel less alone and less trapped. Here on my blog I can have a fantasy conversation with someone that I can’t have in real life for whatever reason, but when the time comes to talk in real life, I’m in a far better position to do so. I am very aware that this may also be a way for me to have control of my narrative, as I tend to write when I feel things spiralling, but it’s definitely a healthier coping mechanism than almost all of the alternatives. That’ll do for this post. I’m still struggling with the situation but I know that in time the pain will lessen. I understand how it is, and I accept how it is, but my heart hasn’t quite caught up yet.