I keep thinking about how I wish I had someone in my life;
Not so much because I miss having someone physically but the simple presence of having someone’s company like that of a warm blanket on a cold winter night - that comfort. How I wish I could have someone beside me at a cafe while we work together - every now and then I’d glance up to smile and to admire and we’ll meet eye to eye - we’d talk about the topics we’re studying and bounce ideas back and forth - challenging ours philosophies. How we could be spread upon the floor with a mountain of pages and a river full of books and in the background, quietly, there’s music playing and perhaps we’d hum to the same song or perhaps we’re make a comment about a memory we had when our favorite band comes on. How I wish I had someone’s shoulder to lean on when the weight is far too heavy to handle and I’d close my eyes, resting gently beside them while not shedding a single word but playing with their fingers as the silence speaks between us - for us.
I think I miss those small glances of intimacy and genuine hints of happiness - where the smallest of moments meant the most and where the words happiness and love and honesty were used as expressions and not wishful thinking. To be reminded why we take chances and why it feels so good to be sharing your life with someone.
It’s starting to become cuddle weather and I still don’t have someone to cuddle with. This is not okay. Life can’t just make everything chilly and not deliver on the cuddles. That’s not okay.
No, but seriously, if someone starts talking Shakespeare to me, enjoys literature and poetry, holding hands at galleries, picnics with a lot of fruit and getting tipsy every now and then and cuddling in nothing but our underwear while listening to music, I will date you so hard that you will never have to buy a single cup of Starbucks ever again in your entire life. And I’ll buy you all the ice cream in the world and give you all the cuddles you could ever want and tell you that you’re cute and cook pancakes in the morning so you never go hungry again.
We’ll meet at the bruised beaches of Normandy
The burning shorelines of Hiroshima
At the snowy mountains of Norway
And the swaying rivers of the North Connel
We’ll close our eyes and click our heels
Take a drink just to give us some weight
And swear I will do my best just to be a little happier
Even though it’s hard to find
But the day I meet you
I will rearrange my sadness
And change for you.
Midnight City - M83
I could listen to this song all day.
You’re beautiful like a poet and strong like a feminist
Driven like traffic and confident like an Olympian
Ambitious like a fox and intelligent like a book
You’re so many words and so many expressions like the movements that made art historic and you’re everything I couldn’t be;
You’re the thoughts that occupies my empty sheets and the comfort that keeps me warm like a cup of hot chocolate on a dull winter evening
You give me hope like a prayer and give me solitude like a baptism
There’s no comparison;
There’s just you and these words on a page written by authors and poets and artists and historians but they lack the animation and the charisma which you posses with a mouthful of rain and a gentle heart which glows like the Northern Star.
I feel as though I have to apologize for my lack of content that’s been going on my Tumblr lately – it’s been a while since I’ve actually written something meaningful. I feel as though I can use every excuse in the book and easily blame it on my lack of emotional attachment towards myself but the truth is – I’ve had no motivation or inspiration to actually sit down and write. Every time I do, nothing comes to mind – no thoughts – no epiphanies – no inner voices calling my name. And it’s slightly embarrassing because of this idea that I’m dealing with some serious writer’s block and it’s crippling the way that I write, like a parasite effecting its host. I think every good writer or rather, every good artist runs into some creative roadblock where the obstacle is troublesome as well as the sinister fear of not being able to come up with the courage to overcome the obstacle. I wake up and I keep telling myself every day that it’s going to get better when really it’s only getting worse and sometimes I fear that I’ve lost my magic touch – that the words which use to inspire me are now lost for good and there’s nothing I can do to get them back.
I want to believe that I am so much more than my lack of creativity that I’ve stumbled upon lately and that my depression, which plays a large part in this crippling state of mind, doesn’t surround itself around my ability to pick up a pen and write but I fear like the way it prevents me from feeling truly happy, it also prevents me from writing again. And this has been my ongoing struggle as a writer this summer – how do I overcome something that’s been holding me back for what now seems like months? Lately, late at night, I’ve been going on long drives where the highways become the catacombs of my thoughts – there’s no destination to where I’m going and a times, I find myself sleeping in the back of my car, facing the back window and looking up at the night sky, simply pondering and wondering and thinking. I find these drives liberating as I find myself completely alone, not exactly sure which interstate to take or if I should find myself at the front of my own doorstep and admitting that whatever I’m looking for isn’t found somewhere out there in this strange world but in the uncomfortable presence of my own shadows which follow me and slip through the cracks on my walls, watching my every move. I have found that it is the hardest thing to admit your own decline of happiness but even harder to admit your own defeat in something that you love.
And with summer almost over and the familiar faces I’ve come to love leaving to move forward with their lives – when will I do the same? When do I get to pack up my bags and move forward?
Will I ever find salvation in my own troublesome thoughts and make peace with the writer’s block that haunts me every day when I open my eyes and every night as I find an empty space to call my own? I’m in a helpless state of mind and I honestly don’t know where to begin – I have it all backwards. I suppose I’m writing this because I wanted to be honest with a community of people who may understand how I’m feeling but also as an apology because writing means the world to me and the fact that I get to share it to a community of people who actually give a damn about the words I write motivates me to continue doing what I’m doing. I don’t know if I will find complete absolution in conquering my writer’s block but I’m also not ready to throw the towel in. I believe that there’s peace somewhere out there and a sense of comfort and perhaps it all starts with honesty and a sense of determination to be better than what I was previously. I’ve been told that once hitting rock bottom, there’s only one way to go; up.
Perhaps it’s time I take their advice.