Shut up

Will a day come when I’ll have nothing more to say? 

Maybe. But first will probably come a day I won’t want to talk anymore. I feel like I used all my saliva talking about my tiny tiny self-centered problems. My fingers are full of calluses for typing too much about things that may not be worthy. 

When did I tumble into a world where my mental health is that fucked up? Have I always been a time bomb, or did something so terrible happen that my brain preferred to forget about it?   

I feel like I am now running after a mystery I completely ignore. I am this little girl walking with her suitcase that’s too large and too heavy, as well as double-locked. She ignores this burden yet cannot throw it away, dragging it everywhere. And God knows how many times she tried. 

So, I speak and start to be one of those stupid bitches talking without a meaning. 

When do we tip? At what moment it is the moment to just shut up? When is it the moment to accept to move on? To tell ourselves not everything can be solved, and it is useless to try moving freely. 

That a man who has nothing doesn’t exist. Because even without any relation or any belongings, we still have ourselves. The inside, the psyche. The voice talking, if by chance we have one. 

Is egocentricity the expression of self-love, or of the love we do not give ourselves?

Do I try to speak about myself to try to know myself better, love myself better, or because I already love me so much, I’d rather keep believing earth revolves around me than look for other planets? 

I believe I do not hold myself in great esteem. And I force myself to look at me to try to see in me what others see. I am forcing me to look at my body, how it moves, how it dances, to try taming it. To feel just a little less guilty. To feel a little more cared for. I force myself to speak, to listen to what I have to say to try to understand at what moment I stopped appreciating my own self. To try to understand why my mind got so broken. 

Not crazy enough to be diagnosed as “special” but sufficiently so the voices inside interrupt, speak over and answer to each other. Tirelessly talkative, terribly deafening, they lead to madness, and I can’t keep them quiet. So, in the absence of understanding, I communicate them to you, so that maybe some linguist, some soul charmer can come and save me, since I am not able to do so myself. 

Am I the Hypochondriac? Are these voices inventions to try and keep my case interesting? To grab the light, put myself in it, become visible? Suffering in the silence of invisibility, resigning myself to be in the shadow, accepting to be no one for the whole world and the whole world for no one. 

Feeling so close to the ground I could kiss it. Hating myself for writing these things that concern me. Failing to forgive my existence, yet not wishing to die. I believe this is truly the worst: being stuck in the absence of position.