There’s A Giant Hole In My Heart Where Nothing Fits
There’s too much emptiness and too little me
There are times when life plateaus. You are not happy and you are not sad — you’re just there, dangling in nothingness. The day becomes a series of huh what, why should I care?
I have been having a lot of those lately and it’s not a pretty sight.
I have messed up my sleeping hours in ways I can’t comprehend. 3 days a week I sleep for 16+ hours and for the rest I don’t sleep at all. I don’t know how it works or how badly it is ruining my body but that’s what I have habituated myself to.
Just change the habits, you say?
You can’t make me do it
I took Gretchen Rubin’s Four Tendencies quiz today and found out I’m the rebel type — these people can’t be forced to do something, not even by themselves. So me trying to convince my brain the health benefits of behaving like a normal person is like screaming into Iceland’s hills. It’s trending but it doesn’t really fix the problem at hand.
I don’t know what to do — and I don’t mean about something specific. I mean, I don’t know what to do with my time, with my life. I’m living but I’m not. This existential dread crushes my fragile spirit slowly and laughs from the corner. It sees me suffer and doesn't step in to help.
I have big questions — I want to know why we exist. I am convinced it is not merely for reproduction and continuation of the species. If procreation were our sole function, we wouldn't have developed an expansive cerebral cortex that allows us to think complex thoughts and have an existential crisis like this.
On being ripped open and stolen — on helplessly watching
There’s one thing that always brought me closer to myself, closer to authenticity, truth and power — writing. But it’s fading away now. As I take more and more “freelance gigs” for “SEO articles”, I find myself becoming more of a machine and less of a writer — I resent it and any shard of success it brings.
My wounds are empty in the places once rhymes were. I can see them flying past but my hands are tied. I can’t stop them — I can only worry, weep and writhe in agony while I see them break into tiny, tiny pieces in front of my teary eyes.
Can I watch the movie, please?
Distraction doesn't work either. Every time I watch a movie, I spend my time coming up with “story angles” and furiously jotting down “where I should pitch this story”, “will it sell?” etc. I can’t be entertained because somewhere in the back of my mind I’m constantly trying to work; work towards being the kind of writer they want me to be. None of it looks like who I am.
Sometimes I have great ideas — the kind with immense potential to scale and make you the face of the industry. But I just let them drift away. I don’t have it in me to pursue them. I feel way too small and depleted.
I wonder if I’m tired because I’m empty or I’m empty because I’m too tired to do anything?
They call it Depression — but nothing’s down here. Empty, yes. Quiet, no.
I carry along this drudgery around and plaster it with shallow achievements. So what if I work 18 hour days to avoid my feelings? At least I get an article curated!
What does Newton say about feelings?
With time you will realise, feelings are rebels too — you can’t make them go away, no matter how hard you try. They also abide by the laws of physics: Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. So the more you bury them in the deep dark corners of your heart, the more violently they erupt in the most unexpected places. The harder you pretend they don’t exist, the more they rub themselves in your face — especially when you most need to put on a smile.
It would be helpful if I could stuff them down a tin can I bought off Amazon. But they are like lava in my hand — burning through my skin, setting fire to everything they touch. I have nothing to douse them with; I’m empty, remember?