32. Enough Words.

It feels as though there isn't a point where anything is enough. When I feel the sun, I am brighter. I have hopes and dreams. I feel this innate purpose. As the sky cries, I do too. I am forcing myself to be poetic here—can you taste my distaste for my words? So simplistically disgusting. But I will force myself to live with it. That's what thirty-two days of blogging has done to me.

I am forced to face that this is what I have written. The fantastical writing I imagine when I hear the perfect composition of a musical piece or see an edit that incites emotions I can't explain without words. To capture that beauty, in my head, I could always do it. But this is out of my head, this is on my keyboard. And nothing that is typed out seems significant.

My friend told me to write down something I said today. I said it doesn't matter, and now I regret it. Perhaps I shouldn't dismiss ideas so easily. They fall apart the moment I implement them because reality demands they twist into a consumable shape. And honestly, I don't mind what I produce.

There's this impatience within me when I don't get what I want. Like an angry, unreasonable child. A child doesn't know reason until they do. All you can do is comfort and soothe them until they understand why something is wrong or right on their scale.

I ponder over morality quite often. But morality doesn't feed the mouths of people. I just think without result. I write without purpose. I lose it all at night. The life dies out in the evening. When I see people I aspire to be like, perhaps slightly envious of, their smiles don't reach their eyes. I wonder what leftovers I get in this world. I am lucky.

I am comforted and distraught with their unhappiness. I hate the feeling. I wish them happiness.

I don't know how to live with these words that seem meaningless. I want to erase it all. I have once. Now I have to live with what I have written. Without my voice to incessantly explain every line.

To write as though everyone is listening but no one is. You aren't my friend; you might not understand. You are my friend; you might not understand. You are me, but you never understand.

When everyone perceives everything I do so differently, how am I meant to explain anything? Who is even listening?

Why do I write is a question that keeps coming back to me as I write these posts. Yes, consistency. But for expression? I don't feel that overwhelming urge. Maybe I shouldn't talk as much as I do to have something to write. For being understood, by who?

I write like I am misunderstood. But there's nothing here to be understood.

For now, it's a quiet affirmation that I exist. Maybe these words are enough.