Diary Entry #247
You’re sitting in your house, in your bedroom, in your bay window, staring out at the forest beyond. Looking out at the expansive, dark woods while they beckon and call, like a mirror, or more so a reflection, really. It’d be so easy to just slip, to fall in deep. The call is so loud that a never-ending, deafening silence echoes every sound since the dawn of time. You get up before you become too overwhelmed. Your inability to do anything was only growing.
After you get up, you walk a few feet to the left and sit down on your uncomfortable desk chair to stare at yourself in the mirror. You wish you knew how to apply makeup; if you did, that’s what you’d be doing; well, if you could. You can’t, though, not because you don’t know how: you’re smart and creative, you could learn (you won’t). You can’t because you’re paralyzed, not literally, but nonetheless, your limbs aren’t yours. They don’t feel like yours; there is absolutely no way they belong to you. You stare at your foreign hands, internally chastising them for their betrayal. They feel heavy. Everything feels heavy, and yet you’re light, like the universe is within you. There’s an infinite light residing in the hole in your chest, where your heart should probably be. Where my heart should be, I can almost see the light trying to escape when I look in the mirror. It never quite reaches my eyes, though; something blocks it. It’s not allowed to escape; all the hurt keeps it trapped.
However, if it did escape, who’s really to say what would happen? This doesn’t matter, though….what could be. All that matters is what’s here, what’s now. I get out my journal and scribble, writing the word “Anhedonia” down at the top of the page. I just learned this word today, I thought I’d share it, you know? Keep it safe inside my diary, written with its definition “the inability to experience joy or pleasure” to keep it company. I wish I had company here in this room or at all.
Anyways, writing this down was enough. I almost felt some of the sadness slip away, so silly of me to allow myself to keep writing. It almost makes me feel hope, but this is what most would deem ‘unreasonable’- to think writing will ever pay the bills – a girl’s pipe dream is all this is. Not mine, though, no, not anymore. So, I’ll stop. This is it. No more writing. Maybe no more anything. Probably not, though. I say that a lot, and it never happens. Maybe this time it will, but you know, like I said, maybe
Sincerely,
“Author,” (no longer writer, which is the term she/you/I used to prefer)
