I haven't wanted to write for a long time. It felt too difficult, and I was too afraid. My mind is always racing ahead, asking me questions I don't want to answer, like
"What will you do once you write something?"
"What is the purpose?"
"What are your goals?"
"Will anyone want to read this?"
And,
"Do you even want people to read? To see you? To remember you exist?"
And I no longer know how to answer those questions. It's not that things fell apart as much as I let them wither and decay on the vine. I'm a garden full of dead plants. Poisoned by my uncertainty and fear. I wanted to be forgotten. It felt like I needed to do things and say things to exist online. Consume tragedy. Watch the Horrors in real time. Burden myself with the guilt and shame. Say the lines they need you to say. Follow the script or else. I'm not strong enough. I break so easily, it seems. I would apologize for not being strong enough, but the internet doesn't care for apologies.
Perhaps I'm not fit for consumption. If you try to eat me, you'll end up with a bitter taste in your mouth.
I will move forward, somehow, in my own way. But I haven't decided on my direction yet.