there is nothing to write about

I’ll be damned if I start another one of these with, “I’m so tired.”

BUT Y’ALL. I AM.

I have 39 drafts sitting here, asking me to do something with them. Post them, delete them, offer them as a sacrifice to the People In Charge Who Refuse To Hire Me — something. I spend most of my time thinking about writing and then not writing, because after five years of putting all of my pre-pubescent/teenage/other-stage-of-life thoughts on the internet, there is nothing to write about.

There is a lot going on in the world. There is waking up at 11 a.m.– reading about another innocent person being gunned down by police, another twelve girls in DC that are missing, another instance of Tomato Laryngitis saying something that should have gotten her fired years ago, another day of the Trump administration setting another piece of America on fire — and then there is going back to bed at 4 a.m.. Nothing to write about.

I am living on the weirdest fringe right now. I committed to a university, am preparing to leave the country and my family and everything I know, have become fast friends with my roommate and remain in awe at how she and all of her friends do such !!! makeup every morning even though they’re in school, am reading and editing the beginning of my friend’s book, cut all my hair off in a ridiculous decision and now feel even more awful about my face, planned for six vaccinations, messed up my sleep schedule further, and have semi-planned my friend’s July holiday. Mania is exhausting. Coming down is worse. Nothing to write about.

Me and my brain have been fighting constantly and consistently since That Day – I don’t know if I wrote about the day I found out I was fat? It was yikesy. – and it’s been hell since. I keep seeing so many of those new year resolutions slip past me, and I think I’m starting to understand why I don’t write them down. The betrayal I feel is unbelievable. Mostly, I want to unzip my skin and remain out of it for a while until I figure out how on earth do deal with my allocated flesh bag. Still, there is nothing to write about.

There is nothing to write about except what I always write about, and I have grown tired of my brain. It is a good brain. It is always full of conversations between me and myself, files of What Not To Do, love for others and a hyper-aware knowledge of what’s happening around me. It is exhausting. It’s exhausting because even on days (most days) when I do nothing but move from my bed to my computer to my bed, I have to deal with the noise of neurotransmitters not doing their damn thing. It’s too much because I am too much and I want to write about too much and the too much that I am, and the trade-off for too much is nothing.

There is nothing to write about, and I wish there was.

(all I’ve done today is listen to this on repeat and write this. It’s 7:13 p.m., and I’ve been up since 11. So sad, so sad.)

love and light,
shalom xo


featured image from death to stock
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