I don’t know..
What grows inside me isn’t something that can simply be said and even said there is no one who would listen. It’s just, being empty. I get excited about something and then that goes wrong and the emptiness is even more stifling.
If it weren’t so mind numbingly depressing it might be funny but the fact is I find much more creativity in my emptiness, as if I create something better to buoy my well-being.
And I cling to those things which make life understandable: my job, my daughter, my writing.
Yet even in those things: my job is merely a catalyst, my daughter I share and in her absence my heart bleeds, and my writing, well, my writing has a sharp edge.
Who is to say? And who is there to talk to? Maybe a life alone is my fate, if that exists. If there is a God, perhaps it is my salvation to be alone and empty? Or maybe I think too much.