Writing

is an isolating process. Days after days of trying to formulate thoughts into words and sentences render me speechless. I am loosing the ability to communicate other thoughts flowing in a maddening matrix in my mind. I doubt my ability to ever be able to explain what I mean, if I will every know what I mean.
Writing used to be a blessing, when tears are no longer enough to alleviate frustration, when the voice becomes hoarse from shouting unintelligible phrases. The linearity of the text makes it possible to arrange anger and sadness, organization calms a raging soul. I think while I write and the end result is understanding, acceptance and new possibilities. I write in the light at the end of a dark tunnel.
These days, writing means groping in the dark, the fear of impossibility looming, condensing the invisible air. I choke on my own words, which always seem wrong, empty, unnecessary. Every finger touching the keyboard is pierced with a growing sense of hopelessness, what am I writing, for whom and why does it matter. Questions without answers piling up inside, a material weight heavy on my heart, and I can't breath.
If there was a way to make a hole, just enough to let thoughts trickle through, the way poison needs to flow out from your body through a cut, no matter how painful, because there is no other way.
If there was a way to pick up that burden, throw it against a wall until it breaks into thousands and millions of little pieces.

I would pick them up, drop by drop, piece by piece and start from the beginning. The most simple things first. Why do I care? A puzzle of my own mind.