I have been sitting for days with this blank page. Not even open in reality, just envisioned behind my closed eyes. And still nothing appeared. No words. No thoughts. I could find no possibility of a suitable beginning hiding in amongst the chaos clogging my reasoning.
It is as though I’m being thrown around in the current of a nameless, deep something and I can’t pin it down to interrogate what it actually is.
Perhaps I’m being confusing. The problem is that as I write this, I am not making sense even to myself. In the past week I have experienced something horrific. I just can’t start to ascertain its impact on me. It feels impossibly huge to consider processing and moving on from it.
In five days I have been swept up by a full spectrum of emotions. I’ve felt intense fear, enormous anxiety, panic, dread, anger, shame, searing guilt, sadness and love. Oh god have I felt some truly potent love. So low and full that it anchored me when I really thought I was going to fucking lose it. That love brought me back to the moment, showed me I was needed and poignantly reminded me of what really matters.
I called this post, ‘The futility of words’ after a Jung quote I read recently that felt fitting.
“Solitude is for me a fount of healing which makes my life worth living. Talking is often torment for me, and I need many days of silence to recover from the futility of words.”
This week has been one of the worst I have ever lived through. I honestly can’t tell you how I dragged myself through it. I don’t really think I have just yet. There’s this swilling mass of acid emotions sitting down in my stomach and I’m fighting so hard to ignore them.
I want the solitude. In a week in which words mean nothing to me, I crave the silence. I’m striving to be ignorant; of myself, my impact, my future. I can’t let anything I write open the dialogue I am battling to suppress.
Right now, words really do feel futile.