my writing diary (or something)
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blind passion in a dark cosmos
i feel lonely and terrified and even more lonely, in the face of existence, the endless void that i’m floating in.
all meaningless - i’m never to truly touch another person, no one will ever know my soul, or love it.
these emotions will either stay inside my chest, a dark mass, sucking in all else like a black hole, bending my ribs
or they will come out
the only way to release some things
is to string words into sentences and weave
your desperation and loneliness and fears in the gaps.
they are the string that runs through the stories you tell.
lonely poet, lonely child
does it almost feel like
the void is staring back at you when
you choose the words and sentences to make sense of it all?
is it almost like
you can write chaos into order
like you can create something when there is nothing but
a deep, meaningless void,
only random clutter to pick through.
is that the purpose of a soul? to pick up the pieces of trash
that matter to you
creating something that almost seems coherent.
how naïve you are.
but still, these hollow, dim words are all that we have,
writers like us.
the ones who struggle against the ropes of
a dark cosmos.
but full of blind passion.
in the nothingness we see flowers that bloom.
we see the twinkle of stars when we blur our eyes just right and peer into the black sky.
we see, we hear, we imagine that
there are more stories than just the broken one
that our life lays out for us.
we are more than the predetermination,
we device our machine of freedom out of scraps.
what else is there to do than to write and paint?