I cannot imagine being more tired. My every thought aches. My eyes feel like deep thumbprint bruises, cupped in a half-moon circle of sagging exhaustion. Nothing matters, but everything hurts. I don’t know what to do or how to change. I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if I even want to learn. Too much learning lately. The meaning of regret. The weighty cost of selling yourself in pieces or throwing yourself wholesale into a purpose. The cost of knowing and the complete impossibility of unknowing. Everything, nothing, anything. Purposelessness. Unintended grief. Untended grief. The price of misunderstanding. That is all. That is everything. A long series of misunderstandings, misinterpretations, misgivings, misguidance, misreading, misapprehension, misconstruction, misconception, missed chances. Missing pieces. Mistakes. Misery. After a time one begins to wonder if there is anything else. The sheer pitiless, senseless, impartial force of it all. The brutal strength. It strains at the hands that seek to hold on. Drags the struggling body below the water, negating the frantic treading. Eventually you are emptied but left so full that the seams seem fit to burst. The scalding torrent pushes at the fragile envelope you make, threatening to force its way out, burst like flood waters from out your eyes, between your lips, between your legs, to fountain from your ears and tear its way out from your belly button, to leak down your arms and across your palms and wind its way between your fingers to drip from overly sensitized, painfully numb fingertips. I AM A WRITER. With no words to describe what I feel. No way to make this known. I am a writer with a million words at my disposal. But I fail a million and one times to make sense of this senselessness. To make a pattern of this nothing that does not make the nothingness worse. I still remember being called a visionary, but what sort of visionary gets so lost? So lost she trips over her own feet. Trips on her own tongue. Trips up everyone else who comes near her. I break everything I touch but I cannot stop. I crave sensation. I am a writer. But what does that mean? Anything at all? I am a writer. A woman. A child. Nothing. But I feel so much that I must be something. I feel so much that I cannot be any one thing. I feel to the point of loss. I feel past forgiving. My cup overfloweth and yet I still want. I cannot hold enough but I want to spill myself clean. Everything that spills and drips and falls in tidal fury are the things I wish to hold onto, that I need to hold onto. Continuance finds no purchase. I am utterly overwhelmed. I feel so helpless and yet so guilty. But I am at a loss as to what I can or could have done differently. I’m filled with a countless number of shoulds, but that does no good. Life has nothing to do with should or would. Could or did is all that has ever made any difference at all. My throat burns and I am overwhelmed with nausea. My lungs pulse and my heart flutters, the beat so rapid it makes it hard to think. None of this matters, “should” matter, but somehow it gets in the way of everything. A nothing roadblock in the way of the world.