Thoughts

What’s harder than starting? Probably finishing, but nothing is harder than being stuck in the middle. What is there to say? What do you want to know? Do you want to know about my family? I have 8 siblings. I get depressed thinking about how fucked up we all are, at least from my perspective. Was it our upbringing? Was it the divorce? Or is life just like that? Does it fuck you up whether or not your parents loved you to death? We feel angry and think they should have done it differently. Maybe if we hadn’t moved around so much, maybe if our dad hadn't left us, maybe if we hadn't left him. The maybes and the never knowings. Perhaps if I just throw all the maybes and what-ifs into a huge pile, something beautiful will grow out of the unsightly heap. Ugh... this story has been told countless times, we're not special. Yet, for us it's as though this is the first time ever written.

Where do I begin? Literally, where do I ... the Self of me ... begin? I just want to write and write, hoping that something will form from the madness of words on a screen. Like magic. As if a stream of consciousness can create a masterpiece of it’s own accord. If I don’t let my brain take over and edit, maybe I will arrive at order from disorder. Where does the uncontrollable begin and the controllable end? I want to feel something that can be transformed into language, like a secret code. I want to write and wring my own heart and soul. Not to feel sorry for me and not to make the world seem depressing and cold, but what if that's just what it is? Happiness is a myth that we chase. The heavy weight on your chest is the human being in a natural state. Whatever we feel must go deeper in order for it to be meaningful and the deeper we go, the farther we get from the light. Does it scare you? It doesn't scare me, because it just is what it is. It just is.