friendly mess at home.
disconnected. in some, this word brings on a wave of terror. disconnected internet, disconnected phone. disconnected. left alone, out there. it’s scary. what scares me the most and what is happening right now is that I am disconnected – from my writing. from my own words. I can’t reach my inner voice. all I hear an echo, a fake promise. I am struggling to bring it back. in fact, I have no idea whether I can or whether I will or even just how to do it. the last post I wrote, on being productive. I fucking hate it. it’s a lie, it’s not me. it’s all true what I’ve written, but it’s a lie. because that’s not who I am. I don’t hand out advices how to become productive. it’s not who I am. for a second, I wanted to delete the post completely. but it will stay there. to remind me. of what not to do again.
I’m a little bit angry at myself, disappointed and just plain drained. in terms of writing. I feel like I have nothing to go on. it’s not writer’s block, because I am still writing. every day, I still write words and sentences and paragraphs and even entire pages. but I bury them. I delete them or I mark them untitled so I don’t have a reason to open these files ever again. files, plural. there are so many; untitled, unmarked. it’s my clue not to open them, but of course I open them. I read them, too. I cringe at the words. I hate them. I hate everything I write. my stomach turns upside down every single time.
I’ve felt like this for months. it’s difficult to pinpoint the exact moment when it started. I am not sure whether there is a beginning to this. maybe it’s a constant state. something that will never change. I am at a point in my life where I seriously doubt my decision to write. to become a writer one day. I could have chosen something else. something equally difficult, but something entirely different. neurosurgery sounds fun right now. (apologies to all hard-working med students. I’m being sarcastic at my own expense.)
I am not sure what to do.