I am so heartbroken right now, as I do not love my writing, and it is all that I have.
I have deleted, backspaced, deleted, and trashed an insurmountable number of blog posts today. In the white spaces where my words used to exist, I rewrite and erase, rewrite and erase, destroying and rebuilding more abstract and ugly concepts from the rubble of my disheartened thoughts. I wrote a post earlier this morning, and even after publishing it, I constantly read over it throughout the day, frantically analysing it, belittling myself. Not long after, in a fit of utter grievance, I deleted my blog post. What makes my writing suddenly superfluous to me? Insecurities, I suppose– damaging and degrading thoughts and made up scenarios.
My writing, essentially, is me– and the harsh critique I shame myself with assumes its place with my writing.
I can only breathe shallow between the thin pages I leave parched and pleading for a touch of ink. I crawl up and shroud in every vacancy in the air I create with my muteness. But right now I am anxiety ridden, sleep deprived, ill, frustrated, so frustrated, and sad.
If depression were to give me a break, I would use all my energy up, sweating all productivity out of my every pore to do things I love, do things I hate, and just do stuff. But depression is being a prick right now, and I am enslaved to dormancy. I would love to write about my crippling anxiety, my constant resentment and deplorable sadness, but there are no words right now. I am going to write and erase, write and erase, build and destroy, build and destroy.
I might delete all this. I might not.
Maybe I’ll think a little clearer tomorrow.
Good night, friends.