Writing the things you can’t even say [[An Excerpt From a Larger Story]]

Lately my posts have been either all consumingly depressing or willingly positive. Because of the fact that I’ve been seeing only two options, I haven’t had a consistent frame of thought long enough to finish a coherent thought.

So now I won’t try to make this coherent. I won’t try to tell people what they want to hear. I won’t try to convince you that life is good or bad. I won’t attempt to make every word perfect or even worry about grammar (not that I ever really did).

I just want to write.

The beautiful gooey center that is writing without a cause.

I read a few quotes today to help me get out of this weird funk I’m in.

Here are some that are igniting something in me right now:

“Writers… write to give reality to experience.” – Archibald MacLeish

“Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.” – Natalie Goldberg

I think all of these quotes give different suggestions on what to write and where it should come from. Maybe I’ll try using a quote to write a piece every once in a while.

Tonight I want to use this one:

“Nothing haunts us like the things we don’t say.” -Mitch Albom

Sometimes I find myself wishing that I could have been good enough for many things throughout my life.

I don’t feel that I’ll ever get the chance to prove myself. I’m so small in a world full of people who stand out. I’m so lost in a sea of others just like me with aspirations, dreams, talent, misfortunes, and doubts that I have officially been permanently overlooked.

On a smaller scale I’ve been able to find a niche where I belong. A home, a job, a hobby or two, and a sense of responsibility. Surely if I was no longer here there would be a few people who depended on me that would not easily recover from the loss. 

But is that enough for me?

Is this enough for me?

Will anything ever be enough for me.

It seems anonymity follows me wherever I go.

The coffee shop on the corner of Clark and Wilson.

Riverside street on my way to nowhere.



The mexican restaurant just outside work.

The truth is it doesn’t matter how many tears escape me in my time on earth.

Or how many times I move.

Or how many relationships I have.

Or how many laughs I share with someone.

Or how many purely beautiful moments I collect throughout the years.

Or how many people love me.

Or how many people fall in love with me.

Or how many lives I effect.

Or how many beers I drink.

Or how many books I read.

Or how many songs I listen to.

Or how many drugs I try.

Or how many posts I write.

Or how many moments of peace I get.

Someday I will die.

Whether by my own hand or by life’s.

And the people that mourned my loss, they will also die.

It will all be over.

And just like that… none of it will matter.

Worrying about it one way or another won’t change anything.

This is just the way it is.

And whoever controls it all must be laughing at us.

At all of the things we regret. All of the words we wrote. All of the times we cried. All of the fights we had. All of the times we worried. All of the what if’s we never got to conquer.

All of the times we beat death.

All of the times we wasted life.

All of the times we thought we had any power.

None of it mattered.

None of it ever mattered.

None of it ever will.

I hate to be the one to say it, but ultimately that doesn’t matter either.

Because I sit here in this ocean of no one’s and I am heard by few.

Isn’t that 



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