My hands shake as my fingers strike the keys. My pinky reaches for DELETE. The sporadic tapping echoes against my walls. My pinky reaches for DELETE. It’s not- It’s not coming out right. I want it to flow smoothly. The will of a river weaving and carving through the countryside. No, that’s not right. My pinky reaches for DELETE. Nothing I do seems good enough. Nothing I write feels beautiful. There is so much emotion bottled behind my eyes and in my throat and within my hands. I need to let it out. My thoughts overwhelm my vision, thousands of bullets ricocheting against my skull. I close my eyes but the pounding continues. I go to sleep but the pounding continues. My dreams are echoes of my nightmares. My pinky reaches for DELETE.
I do not write stories. Nor screenplays. Nor epics. I do not write endings. I write fragments. I design shards of broken glass. Fractured mirrors and puzzle pieces. To create something whole is impossible. To feel complete is elusive. When I am lonesome, I prefer a rainy day over a sunny one. My favorite color is the dark, ominous shades of blue that stain the sky before a storm rages. I enjoy reading fantasies. It is nice to imagine a world of grandiose and metaphors and magic. It is nice to imagine a world in which the ending is already written.
I sit in my car, watching the cars roll by on the interstate. “No overnight parking.” I read the rusted letters on the sign, captivated by the simple ordinance of three words. I like that phrase. No overnight parking. Maybe it’s because I’m high. No, I think they’re special. A lack of permanence. A rest stop. A finite moment. I like that; we are nothing but temporary.
I think a lot about space, but it only reminds me of my insignificance. Dessert makes me happy. Life makes me sad. I dreamt more when I was younger. I don’t think the world is cruel, but people repeatedly are. I often lay awake at night, thinking about someone who is not thinking about me. I wonder how often or how little I pass through other people’s thoughts. I tend to overthink. I tend to listen more than speak. When I finish a really good book, it is as if a part of me has died. But, I am not afraid of dying. I am afraid of being forgotten.
The dim blue glow from my display illuminates the deep bags beneath my eyes. Another restless night facing a blinking cursor. Time has lost all meaning. I wish my thoughts lay flat as pages, but they are a jumbled origami mess of paper: crumpled, frayed, and convoluted. I know I should write, yet the inertia of placing my thoughts onto a page is too heavy a weight. My therapist told me I should try writing when I am happy. But when I am happy, I feel no need to write.
I enjoy when the arch of my foot falls exactly over a crack in the sidewalk. Seagulls scare me. I am good at a lot of things, but not great at many. Music makes me happy. And sad. I wish I could make music. I do not believe in a god, but I wouldn’t mind being proved wrong. I want to believe in a lot of things. But I don’t. I have a hard time saying no. I like to stare at my reflection, but I do not find myself particularly captivating. I hate confrontation. I do not think I am a leader. I like reading the lyrics to a song as I hear it for the first time. Strangers make me uncomfortable. Socialising makes me tired. I would rather be lonely alone than in a crowded room. The older I become, the more I enjoy going to art museums. I think art is our greatest defense against the void. I once believed I was special. I have long ago stopped believing my depression will go away.
I do not write stories. Nor screenplays. Nor epics. I do not write endings.
By KJ Richmond.