Before recently, I didn’t see myself as a writer — at least, not one who writes words. I find it much easier to express myself in music and composition. However, this may only be because I have less experience in the area of textual self-expression.
Each person wants to feel wanted. In my search for significance, I’ve begun to see the beauty in communication of ideas through the written word. Editable and clear, written words have their own method of permeating our consciousness, and are unhindered by lapses in verbal eloquence.
At times, in dealing with my own humanity, I feel unnaturally inhuman. This mainly stems from my inability to socially connect with others fluidly (in that regard, selfishly, I would much prefer telepathy to oral communication). These barriers fold over extended periods of time, but not without some initial discomfort.
I don’t let these troubles overwhelm me, but, at times, I wonder if my difficulties are some sort of representation of myself; mistakenly, I begin to believe that if I can’t connect with others, I don’t have anything worth a connection within me.
As an outlet of some sort of self-therapy, I recently tried fleshing out my thoughts in a sort of free-write. Here are some highlights from what I wrote:
“…I wish I had substance, I feel less human as I continue to live.”
“Am I a narcissist [for thinking these thoughts]?”
“Words words words words words words words words words words this sentence feels liberating and I’m not quite sure why.”
This last quote from what I wrote is especially powerful to me. At that moment, I felt that I had nothing of value to say. So writing “words” over and over forced an illusion of meaning and depth to myself.