(no subject)
People said it would be better to journal about so here I am. Afterall, no one reads this anymore, right?
I've always liked writing and writing about painful things, or rather, writing while in pain, has been a good outlet for me.
Overall, I try to think of this experience as one more bridge I had to take on the way to becoming a better writer. After all, how many writers have had to live with heartbreak in their lives? Sometimes it feels like the mind-rending heartbreak that might tear my life apart, but then I remember I am just one mote of dust in the solar system and that I should feel lucky because of that.
I can't though. I can't write poetically or thoughtfully about it. My words are a mess, my thoughts spew up and onto the floor. I wish there was someone there by my side to make sure it would get in my hair, but I think I'd rather carry this shame alone. It's easier. In the quiet, lonesome hours I feel it writhing inside me. It's easier this way. I know I'll get through it. Everyone else does, someone or another. Everyone is stronger because of it and that's somewhere I want to be. On the other side of this river, basking on the banks.
Oh man, though. Sometimes--sometimes it feels like I'm drowning. Like the river is swallowing me whole. It's so bad. It's just so bad right now. I'm not sure if I'm making it any better either. I mean, knocking on a door that's already closed. The thing is though, I'm still not sure why it's closed.
Maybe I'm just too stubborn to realize it.
I've always liked writing and writing about painful things, or rather, writing while in pain, has been a good outlet for me.
Overall, I try to think of this experience as one more bridge I had to take on the way to becoming a better writer. After all, how many writers have had to live with heartbreak in their lives? Sometimes it feels like the mind-rending heartbreak that might tear my life apart, but then I remember I am just one mote of dust in the solar system and that I should feel lucky because of that.
I can't though. I can't write poetically or thoughtfully about it. My words are a mess, my thoughts spew up and onto the floor. I wish there was someone there by my side to make sure it would get in my hair, but I think I'd rather carry this shame alone. It's easier. In the quiet, lonesome hours I feel it writhing inside me. It's easier this way. I know I'll get through it. Everyone else does, someone or another. Everyone is stronger because of it and that's somewhere I want to be. On the other side of this river, basking on the banks.
Oh man, though. Sometimes--sometimes it feels like I'm drowning. Like the river is swallowing me whole. It's so bad. It's just so bad right now. I'm not sure if I'm making it any better either. I mean, knocking on a door that's already closed. The thing is though, I'm still not sure why it's closed.
Maybe I'm just too stubborn to realize it.