I am an endless question that spares no answer. There is no point, no topic to discuss, just an endless flow of thoughts and emotions and a buzzing in my head that won’t quit. Thoughts come and go at a million miles per second, some with no beginning and many with no end. It’s hard for me to articulate just exactly what I’m thinking because I don’t know for sure what’s going on in my mind. This post is an attempt at articulating how hard it is to articulate, an exercise to push my brain to a more concrete form.
Different ideas come into my head all at once about what the issue is, a quick pattering of thoughts like raindrops on a windowpane. Depression, adhd, poor executive function, laziness, fear, escape, all of these reasons for my scattered mind enter my consciousness at once. How do I write about something I cannot grasp? Slowing down feels impossible, focus escapes me and a growing anger builds inside my chest from my frustration at the failing of my words. A glimmer of hope that maybe there will be a flow to this that is enriching to read, perhaps there will be no point but you will have felt an ease in your heart that somebody is doing their best to describe racing thoughts. Will this be a random rant, a useless bunch of whining that serves no end?
Perhaps it will be nothing but empty words but I’ve noticed when I write I feel a sort of easiness in my head, a sense of accomplishment and pride that I’m doing something. Things are coming together more coherently in tiny little spurts, and maybe that sais something. In one moment I feel as if a thousand voices are all speaking at once, and in the next a loud voice booms over the rest, saying “I am beautiful, I am deep, and I know.” A quick instance of clarity that allows a few more words to spatter across the screen.
“Dumb, boring, try-hard, there’s a million writers who fail, you’re falling apart, what’s the point?” All at once the negative seeps in. I’m trying something, I’m being vulnerable, and that allows the critique to step into my mind. He’s cruel and he’s mean, he knows all my weaknesses and will spare no mercy when he cuts me deeply. My response sounds feeble, my chest has no fire, “godamn you, shut up godamn you!”. The critique knows that I feel hollow and weak, like a child crying for help in the darkness. There is no help, there is only me and this keyboard to struggle with and make my servant.
“I like this, and I’m allowed to like this”. What’s this, a voice seldom heard and always ignored? The Lover, my inner strength, my passion and the duty to myself. Slowing down and getting into my stream, or am I really slowing down rather then catching up? The critique lets go of me, I’ve bruised him in the heel and he cries out at my sudden backlash. “I love writing damn you.” He responds “You’re losing your intention”. I’m feeling stronger now, “I don’t care, this feels right!” He scatters into the woods, waiting and watching for my next slip up, a pair of red eyes so calculating and cruel.
What’s most frustrating is the beauty in some thoughts that will never be shown. The ideas that are both soft and poetic, easy to hold and a pleasure to digest. I wanted to project a bible verse, to split it in twain and make it my own as a lyric to my thoughts. What bible verse was that? What was the context of it? I don’t know, it was here and gone as fast as it came.
I yearn for my mind to slow down and let me pick out the words, and allow a fair critique to review them. It’s so difficult to find balance between the Critique and the Lover. To trust the lover is to find gold in every word written, to be so foolish to not see what could be built more robustly. To trust the critique means nothing will be written at all.
A fumble of fingers and paragraphs of writing are lost. A deep frustration and anger arises that I will never remember the words on the page. I can only deal with that anger by laughing at a post about forgotten thoughts that truly contains forgotten thoughts. It’s silly to be angry at what was lost as so much more was lost in the thoughts that never took form.
A certain satisfaction comes from freeing my thoughts at least to some degree. I know I have written nothing in so many words, and yet I feel some peace in the knowing that a few of those thoughts are cemented in vocabulary. They can be forgotten and released because now there is a record of them. I only hope I have the courage to continue putting my thoughts down, to bravely expose myself and peel back the layers of this endless droning of pondering.