Blank

Sat down and wrote words to correspond to the thoughts that ran through my blank mind.

What do you write about when you’re mind is blank? When the thoughts don’t come but you feel the weight of your feelings. You know you can’t stand the feeling, that feeling you feel every day of your life, but you don’t know why. Why does it pull you to the ground? Why do you feel the tears knocking? Your mind is free of all thoughts but the one question “Why?”

I don’t know what I write about sometimes. I spill meaningless words that correspond to the thoughts that I try to synthesize in order to encapsulate a true understanding of the feelings that I feel on a regular basis, but I know the second that I write them that they’ll never complete their task. A task so impossible that I can’t even pinpoint the reasoning behind why I want to close my eyes and erase the presence of myself and the world around me. Sometimes I write and each sentence flows together like the true thoughts of a man who lies awake late at night wondering what his life would have been like if he had been better at making decisions or at least prevented mistakes that ruined him, mistakes that he doesn’t even realize are the cause of his deep yearning to feel any other feeling than the one he feels.

Why do I talk about myself in the third person? I don’t know the answer to this question, but I can attempt to explore my mind to at least grasp a basic concept of my thought process. Maybe it simply seems like a captivating why to write, maybe I only see myself from the third person as sort of a spectator to an all-around lackluster display of cowardice and weakness. I can’t even begin to evaluate what I meant by either reason, but I have no doubt that each point is backed up by sound reasoning.

Sometimes I write and each sentence acts as a new point. I write as if I have no regard for any words I had stated in the statement previous. That’s because I have no regard for them. In fact, I don’t even remember what I wrote about in the paragraph before this one. All I know is that whatever I wrote, write, is the truth about me and that it’s my catharsis. A catharsis that pains me to admit to. I would not want to associate myself with somebody who writes their intense emotions onto a google doc, but acts as if they are the most nonchalant human in the entire universe. That person, me, has to have serious problems mentally or at least emotionally. What is wrong with me?
What is wrong with me? Am I lonely? Maybe the recent death of my dog, a relatively young dog in my eyes, reminded me of my own mortality. A mortality that scares me to the death that I so dearly dread. Death is a strange concept to me and my perception of it is strange as well. Heaven and Hell are both, to me, abstract concepts that were meant to control a chaotic and relatively young people. Neither exist. We are just organisms that think due to the electricity flowing in our brain that tells our heart to beat and our heart beats in order to keep the electricity flowing. Once we reach the final decay of our bodies, we fade away. Into nothing. This is an event that I, nor any human, can ever fathom no matter how much time and energy we put into our attempts to solve what occurs in the end. This, the unknown, strikes a fear into my heart unlike any other thing possibly could. Death, however, also seems to me like an escape from this very terrible existence that I endure every day. It shouldn’t be terrible, but it is.

Nothing matters. Everything fades and life should be lived to survive for the longest time and to reproduce. I don’t live life like that though. I occasionally have feelings for others. I belief that no person should be inconvenienced or persecuted for any reason besides a horrible wrongdoing that they have done. Why does their wrongdoing matter to me, though? Maybe I sympathize with the thinking of a normal human. The “live and become successful and help the world” mindset that public school tries to implement into so many youths of america. Maybe my morals, my sympathetic nature towards others, is caused by the brainwashing of government forced school curriculum.

My words, my ideas on how to put words to describe my mind, are becoming relatively thin and I doubt that I have much more to say at the moment about how I feel and what I think. I don’t really matter and this doesn’t really matter, but if nothing matters, doesn’t that make everything matter? I don’t know if that makes sense but it doesn’t to me and, yet, it does at the same time.