I never thought there’d come a day when I’d be afraid of my own writing.
Who is the one who writes on paper?
Sometimes, I do not know what kind of person I am. Am I a shy and quiet person? Or am I a fun and expressive person? Because whenever I write, I would express all these things I couldn’t say with my mouth.
But then, why is that?
Whenever I speak, it’s like I’m stumbling down a steep and rocky slope, but whenever I write, it’s like the words are like a river. For some reason, my thoughts just couldn’t roll off the tongue like they would on paper.
But then, who is the one who writes on paper?
Well, I know I’m not trying to be anyone else, because to be anyone else, it’s really hard. Cause back when I was moving into the city, I would daydream all about starting over, because I wanted to be more talkative, more outgoing, more popular. But then it would always be easier to just be whoever I am, just the same.
But who even is this person? What kind of person am I?
Sometimes, the voice of mon stylo saignant slips out whenever I’m speaking out loud. Why am I referring to her like she’s a separate person? People would always tell me that I should speak up more, but then here I am, conflicted about my voice. I could hardly even bring myself to write anymore, because I’m conflicted about my voice.
Why do even my own thoughts sound alien to me?
If you think about it,
This whole world doesn’t seem to make any sense to me either.
Like why do we see water fall from the sky? Why does 2 + 3 always equal 5? Why is the sun always agreeing to shine 7 days a week, 365 days a year, until it dies? Why couldn’t animals learn to speak in English, why couldn’t plants live without any water, why do we even need to have oxygen, out of all these things?
You could try to point it out in a textbook, but how do you think it’ll explain to me why–not how, but WHY everything works the way it does?
There’s absolutely nothing that’s stopping this world from changing its mind, except for God. And tomorrow, the laws of physics could just spontaneously rearrange itself without any warning. I might not even get to wake up tomorrow morning.
You know, I’m the strangest person I’ve ever met, but I think this entire universe is even stranger. We’ve just become too far used to the ways of this world that we never really stop to think about it.
It’s so strange indeed, very strange… but yet, how can it still be so beautiful? Just like all those fiery, twinkling stars in the night sky. Those giant balls of fire suspended in utter nothingness. They are so strange, yet they don’t ever question the oddity of their existence, they don’t ever question why they are the way they are, they just keep on shining until they can shine no longer. Just how can they possibly do that?
And to think, that I’m kind of like the universe too: Strange, paradoxical, and mysterious. Full of never-ending oddities. Full of blatantly glaring imperfections, yet so fearfully and wonderfully made.
…I just need to be at peace with that.