There are two things that get me through life on a daily basis:
1. Love
2. Music
It wasn't until just recently that I realized that both of these things are tied together. It was a painful revelation.
I woke up one morning feeling rather empty. I closed my eyes, hoping I could escape to dreamland once more. I only ended up staring at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with me. I don't know what it was that made me figure out the problem. The thought just came to me like a slap to the face.
There was a boy I was secretly infatuated with. I used to fall asleep at night with the useless thought in my head that we'd be together someday. He gave me hope.
But that morning, it all went away.
Now, you must know that I'm perfectly fine with moving on. I know he already has someone else, and I don't even have a sliver of a chance with him. What's really painful isn't giving up, wasting time, and crying myself to sleep.
He was my inspiration.
I wrote so much when he was on my mind, and it was some of my best work, too. Ever since I let go, my writing just hasn't been quite the same. I've had terrible writer's block. It's like my pencil and notebook are foreign to me. My notebook used to be my savior. I could write anything in it, and it would never tell me that I was wrong.
I don't even know what to do anymore. Frustration and sadness have set in. Writing is all I'm good for. If I can't do that, I can't do anything. Over half a year ago, writing saved my life. I was suicidal . . . I felt so alone that I wanted to end everything. I stopped because I still felt like I had two things to live for - writing and love, of course. Now I've lost what I had.
Hot tears are streaming down my cheeks as I write this. I feel like I'm dying. I get farther away from happier times with every tick of the clock. I sit here in the dark, whispering, "It can't happen this way."
I always told myself that I'd never cause self-harm, but I broke that vow when I sank my nails into my wrist. I scratched away until the skin was raw. Teardrops fell and made the minor wound sting. I honestly felt like I deserved that, too. Although there's only a little pain now, my mind has been on the scissors all night. I can't do anything right anymore, so bring on the blood.
I really thought that. Maybe physical pain would calm the emotional storm ravaging my mind.
Instead of continuing on with self-harm, I told myself to give writing one more shot. I'm not a very religious girl, but I admit that I asked for God's help. I was hopeful that He would have mercy and help me through this. Perhaps it was a placebo, or maybe He was guiding my pencil tonight.
Either way, love did not instigate this work the way it used to. There was inspiration tonight, but it was that of anger, sadness, and devastation. I don't know if I'll ever get the strength to tell anyone about this, but I feel like my family wouldn't understand. None of them ever had this problem. Heck, I'm the only writer in my recent bloodline.
For now, my love has disappeared and my ink seems to have dried up. What am I going to do?
-7stars
