My life could be falling apart, but I couldn’t realise it, or I’m not trying to face it intentionally because it’s fearful. Terrifying to see I am not doing it right.
Falling apart is, though, not an end. It’s one state of life. Painful but saying to myself that it’s natural. Natural to feel pain because you are alive. It’s one human condition we always have to deal with. If not alive, everything would be numb. Nothing to feel. No sensation or perception.
“At peace” is a euphemism for death but the term could have been conjured in view of the others. Death could not simply be a peace for the dead, I suppose. Death is discontinuation. The very End. Some religions promise a life after death, but we don’t know it until we actually die. It’s never known until we open the box (or close the box, our coffin box).
My self-worth is dependent on whether I am writing good stories. My writing is directly connected to my self-esteem, and decides whether I would continue my existence in this world. If my writing fails, there might be no reason to live.
So, when I’m anxious that I am not a good writer or the story I create doesn’t have the quality I expected, I feel awfully low, almost suicidal.
Here, being almost suicidal, being suicidal, and actually committing a suicide are different. I am not courageous enough to take my own life, so chill. No worries. Although it's painful, I believe my life is still worth living as I can write.
I am not a renowned writer or anything. It’s never about reputation. It’s about the quality of story I want to achieve, and about whether I am doing so however I struggle, however I sacrifice myself, and however I should be in pain. I am a person who can be truly happy writing novels or scripts while living alone in a cave (with occasional going out to observe the outside world for writing), in the fantasy world I created, as long as the fabricated world is perfect and exquisite for "me." I am writing for myself.
Life caught up with words. Letters. Writing.
I am highly sensitive to words, including written and verbal words and nonverbal languages, such as gestures, facial expressions, and eye contact. Sensitive to all the representations.
Words are extremely scary because words have a certain power, which affects me greatly. Words create vibes and energy, structuralise human minds, and provide forms to emotions. We often find a reason to live by kind words of others toward us, or want to end our life by terrible words of others against us. My own sensitivity to words, both my words and others’, has always been the source of my happiness and depression.
It’s not me sustaining my life. It’s words. It’s my sensitivity. I’m merely a box containing them. Without them, I am just a hollow shell, sinking into the sea. They are my air making me buoyant on the surface, breathing, alive, however painful.
Comments
Post a Comment