I am suffering. It is as simple as that.
Pain got me here. Down on my knees, on the ground. Typing my sorrows into words.
I am writing, for it’s the only way I know how to numb the feeling of such emptiness. The room’s filled with people, of things, of loudness. Yet I am consumed in nothing, but nothingness.
I’ve cried, meditate and prayed. But the depth of this pain is deeper that I could imagine, that I can fully grasp or reach.
I am way passed recognition, over my head figuring out the cause. It’s useless, and I am tired.
Sadly, my return to writing came at the expense of my loneliness.
And for that, I apologize.
“Tonight I can write the saddest lines
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.”
― Pablo Neruda,