Emptiness, Jan. 29

Dear Diary,

Omg! I haven't been posting again!

But all good reasons.

I am spiraling through a colorful world.

...Long sigh...

Living life is exhausting.

Loving while living life is also exhausting.

But it is so much fun. And I'm experiencing so much joy interacting the most delightful, random people.

It’s incredible. I feel like I am flying.

Then, there are moments when the wind I've caught falls away. I begin plummeting in a spinning moment of emptiness–awaiting the crash.

When my crashes happen, I dunno; it's like I am missing out on this wild show that I am only told about after it's over. A situation where I feel like no one thinks of me but acts surprised when I am not there.

And it happens in moments of conclusion, moments of transfer. Moments for rest and reprieve. Moments where all the fantastic people I know have drifted away on their own air currents.

Emptiness overwhelms my senses, taking me to the empty: a void where my tummy twists as nervous pain tears at my heart.

It hurts a lot.

Emptiness is draining. It is way more draining than living life.

The empty is this bright cacophony of heavy hollowness, vivid and vile.

Why do I crash into the empty after moments of accomplishment at the end of a hard road? At times when rest and breath are so needed but absent?

I want to scream. I can’t breathe.

I want to fade away and not exist.

Maybe then the emptiness will leave me alone.

Or at least that is what I used to think.

I used to respond to the emptiness with the bottle. And it worked. At least until the night turned to day, snapping me back into the empty laying next to the drained bottle.

Then, the hangover masked the aching hollow for a sharp, brilliant pain for another moment. By the time the hangover haze faded, I would probably be back into another bottle.

Drinking explained the emptiness. At least drowning in the bottle meant I could reject myself as undeserving of feeling anything not empty.

Drinking allowed me to keep people at a distance. It allowed me to fuel my hope to disappear.

I no longer try to distance myself. I do not want to escape or run away.

But, even today, after the lights go out, the stage clears, and the deadbolts turn, I remain haunted by the empty.

It is not even rejection. I never get that far. My emptiness is just a poignant sour of possibility unrealized and always just out of reach.

There is no escape.

So I sit with the ache.

Life is plummeting.

Life is ache.

Life is hope.

More to come, promise