I miss writing.

I’ve wrestled with unbridled inspiration mashed against an ocean of passivity. I’ve found myself standing literally on the edge of the world (if only it were flat after all), screaming at the top of my lungs into boundless valleys, filled to the brim with libations and merrymaking and sadness, all forced together erratically yet methodically by way of a heart-sized Large Hadron Collider.

And yet words fail me.

Perhaps it is, despite every opportunity for muses, the dullness that seeps in from night after night in an uninspired hotel room that overlooks a dumpster and a restaurant back door. Maybe it’s fear of saying too much, just as likely as it is fear of saying too little. It could be neurosis triggered by a touch of superstition that speaking my hopes and intuitions aloud might encourage the universe to come roaring in and sweep these aching wants right out from under me.

Everything I have wanted for so long is so close to me. I’m afraid of ruining it, and I’m incapable of adequately expressing any of it at all. I find myself hesitant to speak to those closest to me, because they don’t understand. They can’t. Not this. They want me to come home. I don’t have the words or the heart to explain how that place doesn’t quite seem like home anymore.

I don’t doubt that this ache resounds in every human. I’m not so naïve that I think I’m any different. I believe that this deep, cavernous, empty longing is one that nearly all of us keep to ourselves, and all for the same reason: to try to share this burden with anyone is impossible. It’s a hurt, need, desire that, outside of oneself, seems inconceivably unexplainable. We are truly greater than the sum of our parts, but all of those unique parts build into our motives. Each piece is undefinably important. No person could ever know another well enough to understand just what makes him ache, or why.

So: we separate when the ache becomes most unbearable. We allow this pain and need that is an absolute constant across all people to be the very thing that isolates us, that traps us within ourselves.

Humans are made to be together, and yet, time and again, we make the wrong decisions, and we fail to ask for help when we most desperately need it. We are a flawed, broken, lonely creation.

Folded up into myself, I wait.


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