Consciousness of a drained soul
You may misinterpret words, but you'll get the feeling.
After staring at a screen all day I come here to take back control. It’s cute how I turn to writing for help, for advice, for consolation. The blank page is my refuge in times of despair. When I’m happy or content, I rarely open a new document to write just because, at the time, I have more interesting things to do.
The blank page. The thing that scares others is the only thing I can take advantage of. Wherever the place, whatever the situation, in any condition, at any time. Only stupid Grammarly tries to make me write the way it wants, the way it thinks right. The right way. Well, fuck off, Grammarly. You’re the last person thing that I’m going to obey and comply with.
Writing is very subjective, isn’t it? Just as with any other art form, words tend to create images in the head of the person who reads them. The words are neutral, it’s people who give those words meaning. The writers and the readers both give meaning to the written word, but most of the time, it doesn’t coincide.
You see, one can only comprehend words from the perspective of their vast and, as one likes to think, unique and unprecedented life experiences. Same words, different people, different meanings. Did the words change neutrality? Not really.
When I sat down to write, I was going for a completely different topic, but alas, it appears that these words I cannot control either.
Feeling out of control with no energy to change things is a very draining state of being. Especially, when your profession expects you to fight for your place at the table daily. Or when you have to fight medical professionals who say ‘you’re fine’ when your blood work says ‘definitely not’. This is one of those days when everything comes together in a cozy little dance, reminding me that I have to deal with both of these issues. Just not today. Not now.
My writing is as vague as my everyday tasks. Lack of clarity, I get it.
I guess what I was trying to say is that coincidences are not coincidental. I was led to this very moment, sitting on my couch, completely drained, figuratively and literally. I was led by the choices I made and have not made, the choices I passed on, the chances I didn’t take, and the comfort of a familiar swamp I did choose.
So here we are, me, myself and I, in a gloomy dining room writing words that people will misinterpret. It gives a sense of freedom, in a way. Freedom to put letters together as you please. No expectations, no regrets.
‘What you’re not changing, you’re choosing,’ stated a girl in an Instagram video I doom-scrolled upon, and ohmygod, yes. A thousand times, yes. Sometimes, I want to tattoo this on my forehead so every time I look in a mirror, I’m reminded of this.
‘If you’re feeling miserable, go do something about it. Stop whining.’
My psychologist would not be happy that I’m talking to myself like that, but I guess I have always been harsh on myself. That’s one more adjustment I have to make, the attitude, but it’s not at the top of the list. You gotta wait, man. Line up.
I guess I still haven’t mastered the art of growing from good to better, but from the bottom up—the usual route—which is familiar. Here’s my bottom of the well; let’s bounce off.