It’s a funny thing. You sit down to write, and all you find in your head are sentences running around, bumping themselves into the walls and waning away before they had the chance to be rescued. You are forever left chasing them, trying to make sense of them. Like, right now.
I could tell you about how my life needs literal and figurative de-cluttering right about NOW, and how little I have done to make it happen, despite this acute realization gnawing away at my limited reserve of sanity.
Or I could talk about how half-measures disappoint more than not making an effort at all, because vacillation is what I dread more than complete indifference.
Or I could talk about what movies I saw, why, with whom and what I have to say about them, but then there are these people who make their bread and butter off this kind of information, and I’m sure you’d rather get it from them.
There could be a fitness update here, but that would be more for me to refer to, the next time the instructor is making me want to burst into tears.
Or I could plaster a meme here, and think up witty answers that are also “technically” the truth.
Or I could just let the silence be. I could try and understand the hollowness that gapes through everything around it. I could, sincerely for once, drive the anger away. I could rediscover my love for aloneness and forget this irrational fear of loneliness. I could be a little less arrogant, perhaps.
But, let’s be honest. As much as I love writing and leaving behind crumbs of my life for posterity in these web pages, I’m more at a loss of words than in celebration of silence. There’s precious little I can do right now.
I’d love to know what you came here looking for?