How Can You

I used to write all the time. Happy moments, sad, blah or nothing, it got recorded. There's something cathartic about writing. A release. But it is also nerve wracking, it makes one vulnerable, exposed.

I didn't stop writing. It just trickled. Maybe I had less and less to say, or maybe it just got harder and harder to say it. It wasn't as important to me as it once was.

But it is important. That's the problem. I want to, but I can't.

I can't.

I can't.

I can but I won't.

It's a struggle. I struggle with myself and my thoughts, my emotions.

I struggle with my identity, my place in this world.

I just started a new job and most people there don't know my name.

But it doesn't matter. Why does it matter. I'm nobody.

Before you come into someone's life, you don't exist. They don't exist to you. People are just floating particles concentrated in a body. It can go any way.

It doesn't always go your way. Maybe it never does.

Sometimes you don't matter. Sometimes you want someone else to matter, but they won't. They can't. Maybe you are meant to cross paths and then never meet again.

I hate it. I hate everything about it. I hate putting myself out there, I hate trying to make small talk with strangers, I hate trying to interpret words and gestures and find meaning where there is none. I hate pretending like I an do this, like I'm normal, can get dressed up and do my hair and nails and makeup and spend 3 hours with a virtual stranger and maybe one day meet a stranger who won't be a stranger any more. I hate that I can't talk about it, because I have to. But I can't.

I just can't.

See this is why I can't write. So much that I can't talk about.

I think I'll go eat some cake now. It's peanut butter chocolate fudge dulce de leche ice cream cake.

I know, right.