Thinking about silence, about the fact that I haven't written in my journal in months and how disconnected from myself this makes me feel. I've forced myself into this role of writer. I've put myself out there as someone who needs to articulate my loss, grief, pain, but I'm so worn down, so drained, so inadequate. Do I simply have nothing to say?
I expose myself. I confess these terrible feelings and memories. I'm trying to construct a narrative where one does not exist. I'm trying to describe a void, an absence. And yet I fear that I will die without writing what is inside me. It might be my greatest fear next to death itself. I think of all the hours and days I've wasted not writing, not putting down one word. There has to be a space in between silence and shrieking. There has to be a purging, a reckoning, a healing and it can only come through the transformation of grief into language.
But grief cannot be put into words. It just can't. So I have to come to terms with the wordlessness and the silence in my own writing, how what I am reaching, searching, longing for can never be touched. It's the lack of resolution and closure that I seek to express.