• Essays

    fuck facts, face feelings

    I don’t know what to write anymore so I’m just going to write my feelings.⁣

    Which is what I should have been doing all along, because every time I ask myself what I want to do with my life I reply, “I just want to write stories and make people feel things.” But it’s kind of tough to make people feel things when I strip all the emotion out of my writing.⁣

    I’m emotionally honest with myself though. Of course I am. That’s all I ever am. It’s basically my religion—that brutally honest moralistic authenticity, baby—my INFP power. But when I express myself to others, it’s edited so much that it feels like sterile dusty soil after decades of planting the same shitty crops on them. Words, writing, voices. All hollowed out until there’s nothing of myself left.⁣

    I’ve had trouble communicating my feelings my entire life, and I guess that comes from growing up with emotionally unavailable parents. It’s been seeping into my writing without me even realizing it. Until I began to feel like I could only write when I was pissed off or when I wanted to crack jokes. That’s the only way I, a generationally emotionally unavailable person, knows how to connect with others. Pick fights or deflect intimacy with humor. Friction. Chaos. Ah, familiar comforts.⁣

    But what do I do if I’m not offending people by criticizing their religion or cracking jokes while having sex with people I barely know? Do I make people happy? Do I make people cry? I suppose it’s time to openly face my feelings or give up writing. That’s all I have left to offer, that’s the only way out. Fuck facts, face my feelings, share what I find.

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  • Poetry


    Ancient earth
    Ancient dirt
    Layers of death pressed into life

    A thousand and one
    Cycles of evolutions
    To create this compression

    I feel the whisper
    Of life buried and overturned
    And spread out across surfaces

    How can you think you know me?
    I am a cycle of evolutions too
    I am made up of a million and one
    Deaths pressed into life

    I am not me
    You are not you
    We are made of each other
    And of the ground we’ll return to