Living the Unlived

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: May 16, 2018

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Submitted: May 16, 2018

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I write these words and they come to me: as they write me; write my wish to write as i commit to tolerating myself. It's a tough commitment to make. I cannot do it alone. Yet, somewhere within my core, I wish for solitude. Solitude, as you might as well understand, never comes with writing; writing in turn never comes without thinking as you write; and thoughts come from feelings felt, and lived. Someone, an unknown inside my head for now, said that feelings die as they are converted to thoughts; words; language. I do not deny it. Yet, it is a bit hard to accept it. So, if it is to happen, since it is unacceptable to feel how I feel right now, since i am living the unlived; i wish to enliven the unlived through writing as i kill it. with the love and care it deserves. 

But as i said, it is a tough commitment to make; One that takes a heavy toll each time i am willing and wishing to access it. My medium is language and my language is an existence that is not exclusively my own. I cannot lay all my claim to it. I cannot use it and not be used by it. A wish comes with an opposite wish. A wish to commit comes with a wish to run away. Flight or flight. Fight or fight. Never fight or flight. It is not that simple, when it comes to the inner world. Feeling it out. Spelling it out. To flight loneliness means to fight a wish to be within solitude. The conflict does not fade away. I am destined to address it, since destiny has made it mine. My 'it' needs to be tolerated by me or the only option would be to cut my losses, and...well, what have you.

I feel alone.

There. I have said it. But, what does it mean? How much can I reveal? How much shall be good enough so you, the reader, can find me within your world. Yet, bad enough that you do not come knocking at my door. I have to mother you, as I mother these words; as these words mother me, as I call onto them and draw from the resources available to me. And, I've been blabbering on, yet I have still not got to the point of talking about my feeling of aloneness. I may have reached the threshold of making points, however.

But, let's tolerate this commitment a bit more, shall we. I feel alone and my words prove it. I have no one to talk of.

My inner world is stormy. A story of being castaway. I'm still not tom hanks. I may be the volleyball friend he makes. no. 

I have no one to talk of because to talk of(to) anyone would mean to enliven the unlived within me. That's quite a few years worth of unlived experiences. You could've had a better mother in me, no?

Someone, a very inherent being in my inner world which is not just containing an island of castaway, is absent from that world right now. It's an object. A function. A functional relationship. A functioning relationship.

There is no real ship in sight. All my horizon has is an absence of real ships. And that's heart breaking. I look, squinty eyes all tom hanks like, harsh sun on my back, my toes bleeding, my legs scratched, my ass itchy and sweaty, for the real ship that would come and save me from this island, that is barely enough: not good enough, and too bad, to...what do i wish for...oh yes...to be able to...is live the right word?...I don't know. I know the horizon is absent. I want a word to pop up that would explain everything but, words have a long history of their own to battle. Words are not saviours anymore. Yet words are all that are left. And right. And all around me. And i can play, a bit. tolerate the absence by playing. Keep myself going. But what good would that do?

-Kanavnama


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