I feel the most alone when I'm with my thoughts. It doesn't matter if I'm in the train with my arm, 2 centimetres away from the drops of sweat on the back of a stranger's neck or alone in my room, with the door locked.
I'm spending most of my time reading now, trying to get a sense of how people write, but more than that, what they write about. I've made notes and it's going good. Except that I've read so many compelling tales of personal triumph and struggle that I feel drained. Taking in bite-sized quantities seems to be the way to go. Where does this courage from, to put your pain into words on printed paper? Is this an elixir I am just finding? I've always gotten too emotionally-attached to the people I read about. We've formed a bond through the pressed pages, that I value more than most people I've met in person. I am eager to start writing but I know I would be rushing into it. The other day I was on the train and I don't know if it was because I hadn't eaten, but I had a distinct sense that I was seeing the cabin I was in, through a dull Instagram filter: overused and uninteresting.
In moments like that one, I keep telling myself to block out the white noise, the doubts in the hollow pauses, when I am reminded of everything that I can't possibly know yet. Busy is a disease but it is also a temporary solution. Every day I still yell in my mind: "don't fight yourself."