Response to Daily Prompt: A Mystery Wrapped in an Enigma
Tell us something most people probably don’t know about you.
I am, more often than not, looking for the right words to say, and it is only when they come to life in written or spoken form, am I so thoroughly convinced, that they were the wrong ones to begin with.
Most of the time, I feel this immense pressure to write something grandiose and meaningful, as if I everything I say or do needs to matter, otherwise I’m just wasting my time.
This leads to countless of half-written drafts, always beginning with so much promise and enthusiasm, only to end in a half-mark, majestic and marvellous ideas forever left behind. I have more incomplete drafts than published ones, and I always prefer the former.
The only thing that keeps me sane is reassuring myself with the thought that I am just a side character in everyone’s stories: that most of the time, I am just a dot in the span of their whole existence, and that the things I write/say are so insignificant that it barely registers as a complete sentence in their lives. This makes me feel better about myself; knowing that I am unimportant.
But sometimes, this very thought is what keeps me up at night. On most days I want to re-position myself in everybody’s minds and force my identity to reside permanently inside them, so that they can only think of me, and never forget who I am. I suffocate at the thought of mediocrity, so I aim to gather as much attention as I can grab, so that I may reaffirm my existence through other people’s words/thoughts. If I am not talked to, or talked about, I get surreal: if I don’t make a sound I will revert to the abstract, I will cease to exist.
So I write! I write thoughts and ideas to frame my identity, to solidify my being. I let the words form physicality so that even though my body keeps aging, becoming stranger and stranger to me every day that I look in the mirror and fail to recognize myself, my words are what remains the same and what I will undoubtedly know is still mine.
And yet it is the very pressure of having to write to re-establish my existence that drives me crazy: and so I try to convince myself that I don’t matter – it’s a never-ending thing, these fears and insecurities.
Most people think that I’m just creative. What most people don’t realize is that I have, in fact, driven myself mad.