unnamedunknown

[unnamedunknown]

A confession: I'm Not A Writer

I don’t know why I’m so scared. The feeling of my fingertips against this keyboard is repulsive. I’m not a writer. Perhaps in the past, I earned that title. But not now. Every word I type seems offensive to the page—an offense to writing and the English language itself. My words no longer flow but instead are a jumbled-up awkward array of words in an attempt to communicate something utterly incommunicable, at least to me. Though how egotistical of me to expect my writing to be anything of substance, toe to toe with Shakespeare himself, when I have not written in a year. Well, that’s a lie. I have technically ”written,” put pen to paper, typed the occasional notes app poem or rant amid my weekly existential crisis. But that’s not writing. At least not in the way I consider it. And perhaps that is egotistical of me, constituting what is and isn’t writing. But I don’t consider any of that representative of me. Sure, a me in the midst of mental anguish, psychosis, and desperation. But it’s not art. It isn’t what I strive to create. I will do anything but write. I spin in my chair for hours, maladaptive daydreaming to the same 10 songs on repeat, or maybe I’ll passively watch the same YouTube videos until they become my second language and I’m finishing the script on their behalf; well, what I catch in passing amongst my doom-scrolling.

I will do everything but what I so-called “love” to do. What I’m $6,000 in debt for. The answer to the dreaded question everyone asks young 20-somethings —“So…what are you doing?” — the “doing” being mildly vague and weighted with potential judgment. As always, I respond in a cautious and faux-confident voice, “English!” and the responses range from a half-assed attempt to care, as I didn’t say anything related to STEM, and curiosity that typically leads to the follow-up question of “So you want to be a teacher?” I say no; interest dwindles from there. I can’t say what I really want to do because I do everything but that. And if I do, I must lead with what I want my “real” job to be because writing can’t possibly be my primary source of income. But back to what I was saying, I don’t write. Instead, showers after work have become a ritual of sorts for me—a white-hot cleansing from the day. And I can’t help but peek out my window one, two, three, four times, as if I can somehow control the incessant noise from upstairs if I could just see their faces. And I didn’t start writing until maybe 15 minutes before Matt came home. A pattern I keep repeating. I’ve been working on this for over a week, excitedly telling my coworker I am finally writing again. I am “writing” again; just garbage—nothing of substance, nothing meaningful, self-pitying and hollow at worst, elementary and mediocre at best. And perhaps I’m being too harsh on myself. I’m not the worst writer in the world; Colleen Hoover exists. But still, she writes. She has completed the process of brainstorming, writing, editing, and publishing repeatedly, no matter how horrific and questionable it may be. She is a writer; I’m not.

If I can bear a sentence and be honest with myself, I don’t take writing seriously. I don’t take myself seriously. I don’t consider any of this a possible career choice. If I did, I would do it. Consistently. Earnestly. I wouldn’t talk about it, but have something to show for it. But instead, I have, whatever this is. A confession? A journal entry? Possible inspiration for a fellow tortured artist, minus the art - that’s always a work in progress of course. And if I am to treat “this” as something sacred and stop writing for an imaginary audience and instead for myself, maybe I'd admit that I’ve lost my passion. My spark. I’ve forgotten the feeling of strained fingers typing against my laptop or the evading grip of my pen as my palms begin to sweat from the fervent swaying motion, a welcomed trade-off for finally getting into a rhythm. When suddenly, the words start flowing, and in those moments, writing isn’t something that I do, it’s what I am. The reason I’m alive. But that feeling is long gone. Instead, it’s morphed into something shapeless, constantly running from me, or maybe the other way around. In moments where I think I’ve finally found it again, I’m left nauseous, always half-full, never satisfied. And if I am to put my heart on this digital white screen, then maybe I’d say I don’t know how to write, no–exist without academic validation; an authority figure telling me what’s right and wrong, deserving of praise, admiration, care. How can this, my writing, mean something? Be anything but a waste of time? I’m not saving lives, creating the next new technological advancements, or whatever the hell else this capitalistic hellscape has deemed meaningful (profitable). I can’t write without the looming thought that there is always something else I could be doing: worth my time, a monetary or educational gain. There’s someone or something better than what I create. If there is no praise, no underlying envy at my so “obvious” genius and innate talent, and no immediate external voice to fill the void, then why write?

As I edit and reflect on what I’ve written, I’m left feeling both dumbfounded and confused about how to conclude this. I’ve forgotten what drove me to wipe the dust off my laptop and face the boundless void of an empty page in the first place. Where any of this came from. And maybe that’s okay. I am sure of one thing: I will always find myself on these pages.

[unnamedunknown]

Perhaps if I had written my brilliant idea down when I first had it, instead of waiting to do it later, I wouldn’t be currently struggling to remember that idea

[unnamedunknown]

[unnamedunknown]

Fragmented thoughts from thirteen-year-old me projected from 22-year-old me. It’s been a while since I've posted. I’ve been fighting to remember why I chose this path, so I'm challenging myself to write something every day and share it, no matter how small or terrible I think it is. I will break myself from this curse of perfectionism and be born again into a state of becoming. 

Always remember: "Something over nothing, quality above all else." - CjtheX (I believe)

[unnamedunknown]

Regret

One day they'll regret it.

Regret leaving them alone and emotional.

Leaving them because of a hint of vulnerability.

And because of something they couldn't change.

They're still there.

They see the name.

And they want to remind them how far they've come.

How they didn't need them.

But the memories are there.

And the thoughts of what could've been.

Of how they were.

Keeps them from being angry.

Just... empty.

Empty at the sight of it.

The sight of people and the place they once called home.

[unnamedunknown]

— Donte Collins

[unnamedunknown]

These days the tears come without a warning

Like my soul is peering out from my skin

Sometimes it's joy, sometimes it's mourning

But there's always thunder somewhere within

Sometimes the sky is just too much to bear

An endless expanse that I'll never touch

The clouds are a dress that I'll never wear

This knowledge a bruise that wounds me so much

I am a vessel now, hollow but warm

& I am the smoke from some lonely fire

There is the wreckage left after the storm

There is still worship somewhere on the pyre

Give me the autumn, it's swallowed the sun

Give me rough edges, the seams come undone

[unnamedunknown]

[unnamedunknown]

i'm all the people i've ever loved

loseness lines over time by olivia de recat, @i-wrotethisforme, Kaveh Akbar, Olivie Blake

[unnamedunknown]

BORDERLINE

Born in bane shadows, screaming and weary 

Only half of a heart is left beating 

A dark hole inside evermore teary

Praying, asking if this feelings fleeting

My father's tormented hands grip me tight 

Mother's words, a vengeful venomous bite 

Iniquitous lovers leave me in fright

I believe God abandoned me that night

Memories chase, chaos prospers this way 

Sudden euphoric bliss bubbles and twists 

Blinded by rage, leaving only dismay 

The innocence of youth – short-lived; I miss

In my restless sleep, a whisper I hear 

Sleep now, my child, you have nothing to fear

[unnamedunknown]

I don’t think you understand how much you meant to me. I never thought there would come a day where I couldn't text you and tell you about the funny thing that just happened. or call you because I missed you. you don't understand how you were so intertwined into my soul. I miss you so much.

[unnamedunknown]

[unnamedunknown]

“I don’t do anything with my life except romanticize and decay with indecision.”

— Allen Ginsberg - from The Book of Martyrdom and Artifice: First Journals and Poems: 1937-1952 

[unnamedunknown]

I'm holding all your secrets

you're a stranger now

[unnamedunknown]

11-21-22

I wish I was cool. pretty. mysterious

her.

I wish I was enough

I wish you cared

I can't make you

The hardest part is knowing

The hardest part is regretting

The way you made me feel...

I can't make you feel

You'll forget.

You've forgotten

You found someone else

I don't know how much longer

I can live like this

I don't know how much longer

I can regret you.

[unnamedunknown]

Stupid Girl

I'm a stupid girl

wishing for something I can't have

hoping you'd change your mind

I'm a stupid girl

always falling, never picked

I'm a stupid girl still picturing a life

wishing and praying to be enough

I'm a stupid girl

breaking my heart in two

wishing you'd piece it back together

I'm a stupid girl for thinking it'd be different

For still wanting you

I'm a stupid girl for speaking

thinking you'd care

I'm a stupid girl still wishing you wanted me

crying in the tub,

hurting myself till I feel

I'm a stupid girl for thinking I'd be enough

For thinking it'd turn out different

I'm a stupid girl

who never learns

who's never picked

I'm a stupid girl.

[unnamedunknown]

Enough

why am I never enough?

never the one picked

why do I picture your face,

your hands,

and feel safe.

The pain of knowing you

The crushing weight

My soul aches

Why do I hurt myself

carve my skin--

the thought of another lover makes my heart bleed

I want you to want me

a dream you told me is impossible

In my dreams I perish the same way

the cycle of agony

I've died a thousand deaths alone in my room

picturing you beside me

I've seen the future

destiny has its woes

You've moved on

I've grown old and weary

I'll never forget.

Never be loved.

Never be enough.