I drift far and close from making sentences out of my thoughts. Haven’t been at my best, I know but maybe it’s the best of my current potential. After posting my first piece of work, more like two paragraphs of impulsive writing, I edited the layout fifty times because something felt odd. Also, I had a little panic party in my gut after sharing it with my mutuals which made me cringe over my work and I almost made a close call of abandonment until I gather some courage to not. Talk of being indecisive!
One thing about overthinkers is our “What ifs” are humongous monsters, they eat our “What is” for breakfast, lunch, dinner and in-between snacks. Being an overthinking professional, I live in perpetual anticipation mode and it has side-tracked or should I say almost pushed my writing abilities off the lane. Even in my best days, the days I have flourished in writing, days I have given the best to turn my ideas into art, I have felt a hint of self-consciousness in the backseat of my mind. And in my worst days that self-consciousness ironically upgrades to self-loathing as much so that even a little thought of exploring ideas to write feels so heavy it makes me want to tear off all my written words and burn them into nothingness.
Like, have you ever had a chair in your room, the one you pile random shit on but never clear out the mess off. It’s always there lying indolent, looking like the aftermath of heavy indecisiveness and somewhere hoping to be sorted. I have one of a similar kind. I don’t kill my creativity, I feel disgusted at seeing it stack up against one idea upon another thought. Rotting and still on the corner chair of my mind. Refused to be acknowledged, denied the existence of even a word forget a sentence or a body of art. I choose to not see that chair multiple times. Chair of unexplored notions, cornered into darkness.
Lately, fear of exposure has taken a stage of control over my daily behaviour. I don’t want to feel exposed and I feel the words I write are the window to my nakedness. The fear most days makes me want to close myself between brick walls with no aperture even though it suffocates my lungs. In past I have flourished in despair, writing beautiful words out of it until eventually writing made me feel the freest I have been. Now even a little inconvenience in mood makes me feel tamed of anything I do, feels like I am not good enough to pursue my interests in writing and hence I must abandon it and never mention it to myself or anyone else.
These lines are too blurry to precisely identify, but in the depths of my affairs, I know it’s not just writer’s block. It’s a coma, I am aware yet paralyzed to act on my notions. And thoughts are just filling up the space in my mind with no way out. An overloaded vessel drowning in the sea of self-doubt.
Thank you for reading!
Ps - I wrote this last year when I was dealing with bad mental health. I was lost and confused about writing. Today as I look back I am thankful I didn’t give up.
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