I write, I stop, I delete, I start over again. I keep feeling like I have little epiphanies but really there’s nothing right now. The void of thought. The grasping of straws. I read the poetry of rupi kaur, yrsa daley-ward, Tyler Knott Gregson, and most importantly, nayyirah waheed. I feel their words as if they are being written on my heart. I feel inspired but nothing comes out. Someone choked my creativity. I choked my creativity. I’m trying to resuscitate it now. Trying.
What if I stayed? What if? Is not a fun game. It is a game that turns into a black hole that sucks you in and doesn’t let you out until someone throws you a rope. Or you find an old rope and remember all the words written on your heart and know that you must get out to breathe again. Or sometimes you don’t have a rope, and the black hole sucks you in deeper and deeper. Sometimes you teleport out, only to find that there are conditions placed on your teleportation. It turns out the person or thing that facilitated your teleportation must fulfill certain requirements. Upon failing, you will be returned to the black hole (the black hole has now branded you; sewed in a tag with an “if found, return to”). And maybe the black hole is your true companion. Maybe it is where your story ends. Or maybe it is only meant to hold a place on you, and not in you.
Never stop searching until you find (what’s missing).