I am not Nothing

Who knows why I'm writing this post.

I certainly don't.

I don't know how else to think less; to rid my mind of my clouded judgement, persistent fears I constantly avoid, and the sheer and utter loneliness I feel.

I don't even know what to say.

I stopped blogging; I stopped writing. I stopped capturing the beautiful moments in life. I stopped pausing to admire the flowers which dotted the sidewalks I'd run on; I stopped running. I stopped checking up on people who only checked up on me when they needed something- I stopped caring if I told them no. I stopped having someone to confide in; I gave up on building new bridges, and I lost the strength to still love everyone who had hurt me.

Does that make me a bad person?

I no longer know how to write. I don't know to put words together in clever, metaphorical ways; all I know is that I miss it. I miss everything.

Things change, and we grow and we learn, and we adapt and we flourish in ways we thought we never could before, but things changed for me a long time ago; and I simply don't know if I'll ever be able to flourish again.

I wish so desperately for everything around me to be different- why is that you can try so hard for someone every day of your life, yet all they remember is that one time you no longer had the strength to keep trying? I want so much in my life, but can I achieve it all alone? Can I achieve everything with only the kindness in my heart, and wit I carry about with me?

I used to always want to be kind, soft and gentle to those who tore me down over and over. I still wanted to shine and sprinkle this semblance of radiance and positivity on those around me even when the inside of my head was dull and my language monotonous. I wanted to be noticed, and praised, and acknowledged, and yet I wanted to be humble and modest, and a symbol of silence. I wanted to fix everyone who had broken me, because in some fucked up way, I knew that they were broken themselves.

But it isn't like the movies. It's not like the books you read, where you root for the mean, unwavering, brooding soul of the hot guy to fall in love with the soft and gentle girl who picked flowers near the meadow she lived in. It's not like the shows on television portray it, it's not like the overly cliche stories you hear.

Reality often means that there is no one there to save you. Reality is the dawning realisation that in the end, all you have to count on is the very essence of your soul, and you'll be spending your life chasing a happiness that goes as quick as it comes. No one is there to fix you, without it eventually becoming draining, and tiresome and so horribly difficult to deal with. You lose your friends, even if they cared about you, and you look around to see what other people are doing only to realise you're the only one who cares. Literally, you realise that NO ONE CARES. Only your complete inner circle will be there to guard your back in a cruel world, and you realise that the memories you made with people are better than the same people actually standing in front of you. You realise that loving someone requires a leap of faith, and that a soft landing is never guaranteed, and that shyness has a strange element of narcissism; the belief that every little thing you do, is important enough to make someone out there care enough to notice. You realise that the only way to get through this life, is laughing hard and constantly, especially at your yourself. You realise that everything you hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything you see is a perspective, not the truth. You realise that everything in life is relative and unpredictably spontaneous, and completely and utterly subject to an individuals emotions, expectations, and opinions. You realise that there's bad and good people out there, and that there's bad qualities which every good person has, and redeemable, good parts to every bad person out there.

In the end, reality is all about getting over something, and moving on. And I think I'm stuck somewhere right in the middle. I mean, does anyone really give a shit about me? Probably not; at least, not in the way it matters. But kindness should always prevail, and things like the truth, and raw emotion, and genuine laughter matter. So why can we, as humans, with beating hearts capable of feeling a vivid spectrum of powerful emotions, not be able to realise there is so much more to life even through the death that waits at every corner, or the pain and agony that ripples through the air? I mean, fuck, this isn't that "do your part to help out" bullshit you see everyone preaching about, but how can people be so utterly blind as to not understand that something so minuscule as smiling at a stranger could save their life?

It's how much things can matter so less and so much to you at the same time. I both love and hate people in equal parts. I used to love them; I used to tell myself to constantly strive to be that person who didn't even have the capability to hate. Who's rawest, purest emotion was simply love down to the core of her bones. But then you grow up, and you're hurt. You're used, and you're broken. You have your trust completely shattered, and you lose all the motivation you once had. Your bones become tired, and your soul is overwhelmed and can't catch the moments of peace that used to come so much easier. But you still smile through the pain, you still try again everyday just as the sun rises and the sun sets, every single day. You just realise that you deserve better. You realise you're worthy of respect, from yourself and others, and you realise that even if you live your life as a ghost, or in a spotlight under constant attention, you're worth something. Above anything, despite the brokenness and melancholy and indignation- or indifference, you're still existing with as much of a right as anyone else. You are always something.

You are never nothing.