tfw you can’t express yourself

It has occurred to me that I can’t not express myself. I need a physical outlet to pour out my thoughts and feelings. They are the rainwater to my rain tank and lord I am overflowing. Take my waters to distant soil and let me water plants anew. Let them grow and become something I am no longer familiar with. I need it to leave my body before I crack. Do I need a filter? Probably. Sometimes however, it gets to a point where I no longer care.

I suppose I have always known this, as I have always kept journals, diaries, public and private blogs. I’ve written prose, poetry, stories, articles, essays, straight-up rants. I’ve drawn, I’ve sang, I’ve learned to play guitar when all else failed. Each emotion or frustration inspires a different outlet, grows a different plant. I try to channel things creatively, usually. But sometimes it gets to a level where all you can do is pour out your heart with all the words you know.

I remember I started blogging profusely when I first went to America, because I knew no one and had no one to talk to. I remember I started blogging less back in Australia, because I came home to a friend who I could talk to, and I would simply tell her all the things I’d learnt that day, all the things I’d realised and felt. Once I’d spoken it, I would no longer need to write it. It made me forget how much I had relied on writing.

But I came back to it. On issues that I could not talk freely about, I expressed cryptically in poetry. On issues that were so large that I could not pull out from my bottleneck, where I could not grab a single word to begin the unthreading, I relied on the private space of journaling, where my cussing could not be read, where my inability to express myself was expressed in exasperation.

Now however… now there’s a different feeling that I need to let out. Poetry doesn’t do it justice. Free writing seems too confining. Metaphors are inadequate. Talking to someone about it was a relief for a moment but fell just short of the change. What can I do when every outlet is not enough? What can I do when words falter and hesitate because the canvas is just too big? When you can’t string any sensible sentence together because this language and every language cannot grasp the enormity of what needs to be expressed? When the chords I know can’t play my melody? When I can no longer draw the mess I can see in my head? When the patterns I come up with barely resemble the shapes of my heart? What do I do when I cannot express the irony? Where all my words become muddled because the subject matter is muddled?

Wait, no… the subject matter is not muddled… it is a ball of light that my eyes can barely handle, my brain can barely process. I don’t have the receptors to accept these new photons. All colours are just white. No wonder all feels inadequate. No careful analysis nor play-by-play can truly shape the waves of light that emanate. Water, I understand. Water, I’ve dreamt about. Water, I can hold and taste and examine. Light…

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