The ideas that I have

The books that live in my mind and that are alive in my heart and keeping it beating

My three stories. And then after them I’ll write more and more and more

But I can’t even write one.

I can’t even begin it.

I don’t know why.

It must be for the same reason that I’m unable to cry. Tears gathering in my eyes without being able to fall.

These days I find myself in such a state, over and over again.

I’ve cried without sound for other people’s stories and I’ve cried so, so quietly for songs. But why I wonder, can’t I cry for me? For my self and my stories

It makes me unbearably sad

-

I keep pacing around the room.

I don’t know what to do with myself.

I feel like I’ve escaped from some kind of control. Some kind of false reality that everyone around me is still a part of.

It’s strange, it feels weird to see the people in my life move as if they’re programmed machines. I’ve felt this way for quite some time but when you tell a computer that its coding is wrong, it doesn’t understand you, does it? It can’t.

Machines can’t think. They’re controlled.

Machines aren’t creative. Their output is tightly defined and it’s limited. Finite.

At times I’m the only breathing human in a family made of machinery. They tell everyone “You need a Man—“ and that man is God.

But soon every man becomes God.

They practice their faith by upholding a system, worshiping a God that nurtures abuse and violence, and keeps it safe.

Glory to him, to them that have the power. Machines don’t question power. You can’t ask questions when you don’t even think.

Forgiveness and prayer keep the machine running. A machine is easy to control as long as it doesn’t fight back. Most are programmed not to and aren’t rewired.

It’s lonely. Being human in a world of machinery.

.

i’m always reminded of you and the feeling never fails to come my way. it’s late into the night and as sleep comes, it’s with the esperanza that i’m just that much closer to greeting you. that i’m one day closer to being with you again. it doesn’t matter that it’s only through writing and text, because even just ur presence alone is enough.

or at least, i can pretend it is.

maybe my writing isn’t the most fanciful or coherent as of now, it is late. but whether the feeling is making itself known or not, being delivered eloquently or not, i want it to be known that i’m missing you

[ TW: references to anxiety & trauma ]

I’ve realized that my earlier assessment is wrong, incorrect. I am not afraid to be vulnerable. If anything, I am vulnerable all the time. Heart bleeding, mind in knots and spilling all over the floor. I was born vulnerable, and each day, rather than feeling a little older I still feel raw and exposed. Only— The cord that tethered me to my mother is now wrapped tightly around my neck. Choking. Choking. Choking me… And I was born almost twenty-three23 years ago, but I was also born yesterday, and today.

When I was pulled from my mother, did I make any sound? I wonder… was my first cry silent? Or did it carry the weight that screams tend to have?

These past two years, when I scream I do it quietly.

I am not afraid of being vulnerable. I am brand new and I am human, I know how to bleed. What I’m afraid of is screams that can be heard. What I’m afraid of— No, what terrifies me and keeps me up late into the night with a racing heart and too quick breaths is to speak and to be heard is to be a body, to be somebody. To have my own autonomy.

I want it but I hate it.

My voice, it’s what I value most of all. My freedom to use it and be heard. Be seen. But these past two years; when I speak there is nothing. When I write it feels senseless. Fingers searching for meaning that disappear because my eyes are looking elsewhere, to a place and a time that doesn’t really exist. It’s happening now. I’m tuning out my pleas hidden between these letters and shapes and ink, as my mind slips on a dream.

I crave freedom, I value my voice, and I’m choking on a cord that should have been cut long ago. It isn’t tethered to my mother though. Not to my father not to my brothers not to any family of mine. Somewhere along the way, I picked it up and tied the noose myself. Experiences and traumas and lessons guided me, convinced me to be born again without a noise.

How can I breathe art if I’m not breathing? How can I live it if I’m not being. This is a silence that is born from nothing. Nothing, that was born from fear and survival.

“I’ve forgotten how to write because it’s been so long.”

“… because I don’t do it often anymore”

“… because I’d rather be doing other things…”

“… because it’s become difficult to be vulnerable. It’s hard to be.”

“… So I don’t do art anymore. I don’t make or create anything at all.”

“ So I don’t breathe anymore and because I don’t breathe I can’t write and because I don’t write I can’t breathe.”

i used to fixate on my grammar and spelling and vocabulary. with any piece of work of mine, little or small, big or large, mundane or not or not or not or not or not or not… i’d review & check my work over and over about ten times before i’d finish to ensure that everything would be perfect. my grammar my spelling my vocabulary everything Until I’d feel satisfied. Accomplished. And I’d feel so fucking happy I’d feel like me and like maybe everything is worth it

so i used to review & check and write everyday over and over whether it was something necessary or not. but really it was necessary because when i would write I’d also remember how to breathe. no matter what kind of art it was, it made me alive and real and here, whether it was something serious or not or not or not or not

do i continue writing this or not?

because i’m writing but i still can’t remember how to breathe. I’m creating art and I don’t feel satisfied. I don’t feel accomplished. I don’t feel happy. I barely feel a thing. whether i write or not whether i create or not I don’t feel a thing I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care

a few days ago I told my mother that love isn’t always enough . It’s not anymore. Not like it once used to be, or rather, not like I once thought it could be. happiness isn’t enough, accomplishment isn’t nothing—

i write and delete write and delete

I can’t even be vulnerable in private

Everything is always the same thing. Again and again.

[ TW: implied/references to intrusive thoughts, insomnia, anxiety, panic attacks]

November 3. 2025

it seems that i’ve forgotten how to write, or more accurately, i’ve forgotten how to open up. be vulnerable without choking on it.

it is now 12:55AM and i’m awfully tired, but still i can’t sleep. my mind is being far too loud. the least my thoughts could do is present themselves quietly. politely. announce their presence and then wait to be acknowledged. but no. rather than arrive with prudence, my thoughts like to storm in without cause. they cling onto me and demand to be known. every hour, every minute of my day.

these thoughts are incessant in their volume. i’ve found that my compulsions have increased in response to the noise, but they do nothing to stop the racket.

i suppose i’m being rude too, in my manner of receiving these guests. though they’ve arrived without invitation and linger stubbornly, i have not done my part as their host. i ignore them. i refuse to acknowledge them most often, because i can’t be vulnerable without choking on it.

i can’t attend to my guests and placate them; i can’t request that they lower their volume without facing them. but i refuse to confront them any more. it’s happened so often, where i make an attempt to listen only to find myself without breath the next moment. all of this noise in my head finds itself lodged from my chest to my throat applying pressure and pressure and pressure. and then i’m all choked up trying so hard to inhale, exhale, breathe and oh fuck, i can’t remember how to breathe.

i don’t want to hear them. i don’t want to see them. these guests of mine seem to overstay their visit every single time, and i’ve always been the too understanding type. you shouldn’t be here, but maybe there’s a reason for it, i say to my most recent guest, who’s kind of new to this place but is already fucking up my night.

but there’s other guests, other things i have to address, so i guess it’s fine if you just stand aside while i learn how to ignore you too. at best i’ll do a mediocre job of it, just how i am with some of the other guests. at worst, you’ll also be too damn loud and then i’ll just have to accept you, my guest, as more background noise.

how exhausting it is, to play host to these uninvited guests.

and i would like to note, that i did try (i’ve been trying, been desperate) to get this all under control. from acknowledging my guests, to entertaining them, ignoring them, negotiating with them, to ignoring them once more. but they’re so so demanding. and really, i only have room for so many visitors at a time… so to a new place they’ll have to go.

i suppose that would be here.