I am blankI think I have a disease.
Is there such a thing as having too much meaning in life?
- Every.single.action is examined, masticated, swallowed, regurgitated, liquefied, vaporized, breathed out, breathed in, poisoned.
- Every.single.person is loved, hated, obsessed over, known, isolated, overly-familiar, a complete stranger, misunderstands*
- Every.single.challenge is never challenge enough.
- Every.single.relationship is never intimate nor safe enough.
- Every.single.ounce of life cannot pass without analysis and question.
- Every.single.emotion is simultaneously numbing and painful.
- Every.single.minute is accompanied by an intense desire to retreat from others but hurt when they feel the need to retreat from you.
- Every.single.family gathering carries immense weight because we all die...and it will someday no longer be like this. "Must take it all in, don't miss a moment."
- Every.single.word of both encouragement and criticism takes deep root in a garden long ignored and forgotten.
This, as you may have guessed, is too much pressure on one little life.
In these last few months, I have made very little sense to myself...why would I expect to make sense to anyone else? [and if someone assures me they do know me, why is this such a unpalatable affront?] I don't want to be known so much as left alone. Yet being abandoned in this pursuit is one of my deepest fears.
I am blank, barren, white, unoccupied. I am a me I don't recognize.
The me I want to be is a great artist.
But in my terror, I see