Return

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, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair

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