The things I cannot write about

I used to be able to write about anything. Years ago, I owned a Wordpress blog that's as personal as a public diary. There, I wrote about the events of the day, my opinions, feelings, gripes, hopes and dreams.

But growing up led to maturity and the desire for privacy, to the internal resolution to think about the things I will say a thousand times over before I say it. I then closed my blog, set it to private, and eventually lost access to it.

Yet that blog helped me. It became the person whom I talk to when I need someone; it became my therapist.

One of the reasons why I redesigned this blog massively early this year is to bring that format back. The problem, however, is that the previous resolution is still in place.

I cannot anymore write about myself.

It is incredibly frustrating to spend whole days planning a post, then sitting for hours at night staring at an empty post screen forcing myself to write. To type one letter. Or to just touch the keyboard.

It is incredibly frustrating because there are a lot of things going on, things that I need to air out. And without the benefit of a willing friend or a free therapist, there is no other way but here.

So I continue to stare at an empty post screen night after night, fighting circumspection, and losing.

Because I want to write about how I feel empty all the time, how sadness is terribly debilitating, and how I have to distract myself at all time to forget about it.

I want to write about how I make an effort to act like a different person to other people, someone quick-witted and charming and carefree and sarcastically callous, and how I don't like the person that that person is.

On how I need to shut up sometimes, because I am awfully introspective, and I spend long moments thinking about all the things I've said and done carelessly, even though I've done them years and years ago.

On how everything feels broken, how life horribly feels like a waiting game, of waiting to die or waiting for good things: your first car, your first house, your happiness. On how the waiting is so slow I wonder why even wait, knowing that doing anything will not hasten it.

On how kindness is overrated, on how the people I've trusted and have been kind to can and have screwed me over, on how the people I idolized are really hypocrites, and how there is a list of people who gleefully doled out harm and will never ever say sorry.

On how my life feels like a fun. song: deceptively chipper but fucked up through and through.

These are the things I can never write about. x