Sometimes, I think like This...

Maybe it's a sign of bipolar disorder, or me just being indecisive, but I go through these periods where I doubt pretty much everything and feel as close to depression as I've ever felt before. Apparently, it's therapeutic to record everything, so here goes.

 This is a letter that I wrote to myself whilst I was on holiday and told myself I would not write and relax into fun with friends. It rarely works out, and though this doesn't represent feelings I have now, I have felt them and I wonder if they have swept over some of you before.



I wish it could not be like this. I wish it did not have to be so difficult. For some time now, I've attempted to decide what exactly it is that makes me a writer. What it is that accredits me to say the words "I am a writer" to somebody on the same level as one might say "I am female" or "I am Jamaican". It's nothing so integrated in my make-up (or so I hope not, otherwise Self, this is the life and it is a struggle), and yet it is. What's worse is that it makes no sense, I can't express it properly, and if I can't do that, then am I not failing at my singular ability?

I wish I didn't think like this. Sometimes, I wish I didn't think at all, because I look at others and fantasise that my minds are...not emptier, but more defined. Thoughts ordered in little pigeon-holes, willed forward when needed and slotted back comfortably until the next time. For just a few moments, I indulge in silence and wish it could draw out longer, I wish it could extend its coherence and its consistency to wrap around me. And then I stop and I realise that I will never have more than a few fragile moments for the rest of my life. Is it arrogant to presume so? Why, yes it is. I am long past the point where my thoughts of my own self-importance embarrass me, and am now at the stage where I am humiliated by anybody's insistence or implication that I am not. Even though, I present that front to them, I allow them to believe it is fine to undervalue me, like I am testing them to turn against it and treasure me as I wish they would in the first place. Incoherence, I know it well.

I have always thought my intention was to learn more of the world, and in turn how it works within me, and I within it. Self, I've always thought that I understand myself better in my writing, to look at the blueprints of my conscious and pretend for a second that it didn't come from me. That it came from the insight of another, so I could never doubt it and find resolve. But other times, it is the opposite. Other times, I feel as though I become somebody, even something, with a mentality that neither I or anybody else can recognise. This mentality infiltrates every part of my life, the quietest, most sacredly dull moments where I first determined I would never let it go. Once, I gave it a precedence thinking it was harmless, and now I spend my days trying to confine it in threadbare parchment and the fumes of drying, cementing ink.

It has made me somebody who is arrogant of the world, and yet so in awe of it and the disconnection that alternately melts and fortifies. I crave interest and understanding, whilst resigning to everybody's indifference towards me. It seems that to be a writer, Self, is to linger in the space between enlightenment and purgatory, and to accept this contently, then defiantly, then with undeniable self-loathing for putting myself here in the first place.

Self, sometimes I just "want out."


P.S I am so lonely

The End

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