Lately, a sense of hunger has characterised my being. And I try to subside this hunger by focusing on words, for I know very well how some words can make people feel happy things, but I’ve eaten up words and whole pages and whole books and whole people and I still feel hungry.
Words can only help you if you speak them.
And the thing I want to say most of all is that I am disappointed.
I’m disappointed by the extent of empty promises I’ve let myself believe. Green fields and early walks through morning-lit forests, green leaves, green smoothies, early bedtimes and rising before sun break, exercise and routine, consistency and social pleasantries. I don’t know where the problem lies, why all my quotidian is failing to suffice.
Maybe I demanded too much of sunsets. Or of myself. Or both. The realisation that I am not the person I hoped I would become leaves me feeling suffocated. Words are meant to be shouted, felt and wasted,
but when I feel translated there are no words that can describe the feeling of time crawling under your skin, all in slow motion.
Maybe one day I will find the courage to voice my dissatisfaction with the beautiful. In the meanwhile, I will do what I do best: wait for the ticking to pass so I can reach the good times.