I can’t find the words. They’ve always been there for me, maybe not when the world collapses, when the pain is all I can feel, when the darkness creeps inside my skull and makes me go blind and deaf and numb, or when the madness takes over and turn me into my worst nightmare. But I know they exist somewhere, that I can claw and peel until they come back to me. Just like when I first learned how to write. It’s about trying and trying and eventually you force them to make sense.
I think I discovered as a child; that if I could express it, then maybe I could survive it. Even if it was just saying it to myself. Words can be a lifeline. First they got me in trouble. They made shit worse. Way worse. And sometimes it’s best to shut up. Stay quiet. But the harder they made it, the louder I screamed. I’ve always been stupid like that. And then I spent years not saying much. There wasn’t really anyone that were interested in listening. So I started writing the damn words down, just for me. They became my allies. They became the lifeline.
But lately I’ve felt like they fail me. Or like they are not enough. I write it down, the ugly, the messy, the hurt, my fears, my regrets, my shame. And I look at them, and I get pissed, because they are just words, they are just MY words, and they came from me but do they really give me anything in return besides just fucking being there? And then I wonder if someone reads them, would they even know what they mean? Do they get what I’m trying to say, what I’m trying to cope with, do they understand what they mean? What I mean? Or do they just think «Oh, the bitch is crazy again». And I never used to care what anyone would think about my damn words, they were MINE and honestly I don’t think anyone really listen to me anyway. And I thought I had made my peace with that. Just talking to myself, just throwing the damn words out into the pitch black infinite Universe, because I am alone in it. I don’t know why I am saying that when I can see the rest of you, all of the human race, but I am alone in it. I don’t know, maybe that’s what all 7 billions of us deep down feel, that we are ultimately alone. I hope it’s just me. I hope it’s just me right now. It’s just that I felt it as a kid too. And kids tend to see things as they are.
Alone in that dark room, and just my trembling voice. But it was still my voice. I heard it. I heard what I had to say. I HAD something to say.
I was invisible. But the words made me visible to myself. That’s what they used to be for me. I’ve lost myself so many times, in so many ways, but I clawed, I peeled until I could find the words- the lifeline- and if I could string them together, if I could make them make sense to me again, then they could make sense of ME again.
But now, now somehow they are not enough. They are just my damn words, my repetitive empty words, and I had to claw and peel until my fingers bled for them to even be there. And I stare at them and stare at them and then they don’t even make sense anymore, I can’t tell if I’m making sense anymore, because there is just me to make sense of them.
My empty words. My empty words that I can arrange however the fuck I want and still they can’t see me, can’t hold me, can’t love me, can’t tell me that after all is said and done and written down I am still me. They are my words, and that doesn’t matter anymore. They don’t matter anymore. There is no one to read them, there is no one to say «I understand what you clawed and peeled to say» there is no one to say.. Say anything at all. And maybe that’s the thing here, my own words are just that- my own, and I think I really yearn for someone else to say them. For someone else to make sense of things, make sense of life, make sense of ME.
I am alone in a dark room, and I say nothing. I am invisible. I am invisible and I am still here, and that’s the worst thing. I am still here.
