Feel

I’ve never realised how much I talked until I found someone who listened. I guess before I always listened instead of talked, and I was regarded as someone who was quiet, timid because of that. But when I talked, I talked. Non-stop. I could talk to you until your ears fell off, I could talk for hours and hours on end, with just a few sips of water in between.

I haven’t written much lately, and that’s probably because I hadn’t been feeling at all. Nothing felt right, as I put a pen to the paper. It felt forced, I felt as though I was telling myself what I was supposed to feel instead of what I was actually feeling. The feeling of nothing. You never realise you feel nothing until you feel something again.

That spark of happiness, pain, anger, ignites inside you again, and you wonder how you managed not to feel anything. And I guess the reason we hurt ourselves is because we want to be reminded of what feeling, feels like. To remember that we’re human and how we once were. Because feeling pain is better than feeling nothing. Being empty and wondering what on earth was wrong. Because all you hear is that hollow thump thump in your chest instead of excited squeals or cries that your heart emits when you feel. 

And god damn does it feel good to feel again. To break a smile to thin air, to look like a psychopath whilst thinking about things that make me happy. To talk to people, and feel fulfilled after conversations with them. To actually write what I actually feel. It’s been a damn while. To have people who listen, and people who care is one of the most important things. You don’t have to posses the ability to fix problems, because not all problems have a solution, but them knowing that your presence is a choice, not an obligation is the first key step to being there for anyone. And it makes me smile, that I have people like that in my life. People who listen, people who care, and people who are always there for me.

And I promise forever and always to be there for you too.

– H.E

 

Advertisements

Beastly

The beast inside feeds off anger, insecurities and pain. When I feed it, it feels heavy, like it’s about to rip my chest and pounce out. When I starve it, it cowers away and stays silent until the next time because it knows. It knows that it will get fed one day, whether it be in two hours, a week or a month. It slowly waits inside, knowing. Smirking.

That’s why I write, I write because the screaming in my chest quietens down after I pour it onto a page. Instead of letting my heart bleed, I bleed ink onto a page. Little by little, I let out what is supposed to be kept inside to calm the beast inside. To tame it. Because if it gets too much to handle, it means the beast has won, I’m left in pieces and I have to slowly piece myself together again. Alone.

Because it is my battle, and mine alone.

-H.E