If ever there were a stream of consciousness,

I couldn’t tell you how long I’ve just sat at the empty canvas that was this page; time just fades so quickly sometimes. I know that I can’t write like I used to. The words just don’t seem to want to be written: I have to force them, catch them before they float away, then leave them broken on the page. I like to think that my love of words and writing came from my grandmother, the greatest story teller of her miserable life as a child in the war. I think she took my talent away from me when she died. It makes sense; she always had a way of stealing people’s thunder.

I am in the process of finishing the full stop on one great long chapter in my life. I have my final exams in a few days. I feel competent, but my mind has a way of tearing me to bits as I sit in the exam room. The journey of my life comes to one of many full stops; I am the curvature of the question mark hovering above it. I can envision several paths for my future, all dependent on what my mind decides to do next. How will it cope, will it survive, will it prevail for just one more month – questions I couldn’t answer.

I’m mildly concerned that I will fall asleep one night and wake up in a hospital room. I take drugs to fall asleep – not the illegal kind. Just a few more than recommended aspirin, or flu tablets or something over-the-counter. And I drink disproportionally to my age and drug intake. I feel as though I’m subconsciously sabotaging my life to avoid setting myself up for the future, doing well. Maybe I’m just too sad to see the familiarity leave me. I’m not sure.

I suppose I write this to try to give myself hope that I can still write, that there’s something still there with me. Though by the end of this post, I feel that I have failed yet again. I lack some flow, some basic purpose. I once wrote as a thought, but my thoughts are too broken to be legible now days.

My scars have faded. I can’t see them anymore, they left my body. Sometimes I ask myself, ‘Did that really happen?’ I have no way of knowing now. It may have all been a lie I conjured in my head and convinced myself of, since no one knows. I feel that about the majority of my life: there is pain and suffering that no one knows about – could it possibly be a piece of strange fiction? I think I need someone to validate my soul, or my sorrow. I think the two go hand in hand now.

I’m sorry if you were reading this for some greater reason, if you were hoping to find something, hear something inspiration or terribly saddening. I would offer you more, but more can be found in those missing pieces of me, scattered about my world. I am like a chess board with missing players: you can try your best, but it is always significantly harder to play without a queen. Just so, the end of me will be hard to find or grasp. You could try, stranger, I haven’t had much luck myself.