And it’s Killing Me
It’s quite possibly the worst feeling in the world, having a story to tell but not finding the words to describe it. Well, perhaps not the worst. Perhaps there are worse feelings than not knowing how to find the right words to express something. But I like exaggeration.
I have tried everything.
I have tried reading something else. But the articulate nature of someone else’s words is only making me feel jealous of them. It makes me feel angry that someone else gets to be what I want to be. I hate that I enjoy their words so much and not my own.
I have tried writing something else. I have written pieces about a date I overheard at a cafe, about nostalgia when I found an old skirt in my cupboard, about a silly show on Netflix that I hated and coudn’t watch for longer than six minutes. But this is making me angry too. I am angry that I have so many things to say about silly Netflix productions but not about a book that I have wanted to publish for many, many months now.
I have tried going back to my older writing samples. It pushes me into another wave of nostalgia. The wave envelops me and I yearn for time that has passed us by and for us that have passed time by. I long for the twenty-two year old version of me that was so much sassier than I am right now, to come back and take control of my mind and write something, anything. I’m not sure if being the way that I am right now is working out very well for me.
I have tried to clear my head of everything else that clouds my mind normally. I haven’t thought about work today, nothing about friends, family, relationships, and nothing about my past. There is absolutely nothing in my head except for dog videos. And yet, there are no words.
How are there no words? What do I need to create something out of nothing? Will? I have that. Desire? I have plenty of that. So why is this not happening for me? Why is this not working out for me?