I don't know anything. I just think and feel and turn the results into words.
So, I'm writing again. It's been years since I did, and I felt like I lost some sort of magic. In the years that I did not pick up the pen, my brain wrote a couple of sentences, which ended up getting deleted the moment I sense sleep coming for me. Such a waste.
I'm still anxious all the time. Sometimes, to calm my nerves, I read my old poems, and laugh at 16 year old me. She knew how to write alright, but she was chaotic and hopelessly romantic. I can't even recognize the words, though how the sentences were constructed were such a marvelous thing to think about. And as I read, I felt what she intended her readers to feel.
Hurt.
I'm not thinking of ending things. At least not all the time. For the time being, my sadness has grown into a self-sufficient creature. I've grown accustomed to misery, and it works so well with my sadness. Together, they are like a well-oiled machine, continuously running, and I continue living.
I wonder how other people feel so big. Meanwhile, I feel like a falling leaf, gently being placed onto a vast, flowing river. The soft impact ripples, and then suddenly stops. I swear, I'm not thinking of ending things. There are just moments in life, where everything seems paused, but life is still fast-paced. Still a raging flowing river, with frozen leaves either drowning or floating. Lucky is the latter.
I wasted my time writing nonsense. I feel so much better.