The words, they well up within me, forming a hard knot of unexpressed emotions and unexplored thoughts. I want them out, but they seem quite content, quite comfortable constricting my airways, lodging themselves in the spaces where things should flow freely back and forth but are now, quite definitely … stuck.
If my existence were a sentence, it would be peppered with far too many punctuation marks, so as to be un,re:a’da&b;le. I…nc-o:mp”r/e/he,n;si!bl?e.
But what does that mean, I hear you ask. What does it mean to be unreadable, incomprehensible? If only it were that simple to explain.
You see, the thing is, I don’t even know. I don’t choose the words that flow from my fingers, they just come to me – they barely even flit across my mind before I see them materialize on this screen and I wonder, am I writing this or is someone else?
You see, I don’t know where this is going, I don’t know what these words are trying to tell me, or tell anybody. Do words mean anything if nobody understands what they say? Sure, you understand the meaning of each individual word but what of the emotions, the feelings, the desires, the hopes, the fears, the dreams and nightmares contained within these words that the words themselves can’t express, that the words don’t have the depth or the breadth to contain, how can we encompass everything we want to share with everyone we want to share it with just with words words words how many more words do we need to say everything that’s been unsaid for so long
Some days I feel like I’m still that emo-angsty teenager I used to be, crying endless rivers of tears over the perceived injustices of the world, against me me me. Yet other days, I feel far older than my years, for all that I have lived and experienced, still crying endless rivers of tears over the actual injustices in the world.
I wish I could be more eloquent in expressing myself, but for someone who writes for a living, I’m not very good at communicating, myself. Perhaps it’s because I’ve lent my voice to so many others that I’ve lost my own. I’ve put myself in so many other shoes that I’ve forgotten how to walk in my own.
Is it an identity you create? Is it what others see when they look at you? Is it a collection of your lived experiences? The languages you speak, the people you’ve loved, the people you’ve lost?
Self. What is it?
Who are you?
I hide behind my incessant questions of who you are, but really I’m just hoping that if you can tell me who you are, I can figure out who I am.
Children supposedly develop a concept of ‘self’ at around the age of three, yet here I am, at almost 10x that age, still with no real concept of self, still asking who I am, still wondering if I’m anything
a collection of labels.
Are you anything more than a collection of labels?