The Waterfall

I wish my words were like a waterfall, but instead, my words are individual droplets, broken apart by my brain, which I guess are the rocks at the bottom of the waterfall. The droplets are still water and could still make a waterfall in theory. But they’re scattered and confusing, like the words in the sentence are all there, but they’re in the wrong order.

When I’m excited, and only with certain people, I let my sentences come out upside down. It’s freeing and comforting, until someone gets confused by them, and I must work to structure the thoughts in my head into a language the people around me speak.

I can spend months writing blog posts in my mind, imagining audibly hearing certain sentences that I’m excited to write, and sometimes saying them out loud because I think they’re beautiful. Almost like there’s emotion that belongs to those sentences that need to exist in the physical world. And it’s my duty to share them.

When I have the time to sit down a white the blog posts I’ve been working on internally, the inspiration to write it is gone. But the inspiration to write is not. Is it possible to be melancholy, but replace sadness with wistfulness? It’s warm but raining outside, which usually brings on this kind of mood. If I didn’t have to go back to work, I’d lie out in the rain and let my thoughts dance. My jacket would get muddy, and my hair would be wet; but that’s the whole point.

I can write anything I want. But I’ve given up on fiction. Fiction has rules that are more abstract than non-fiction. I’m not allowed to write a story with a plot and only write out my favourite scenes. That would be a very short story that only I would enjoy reading. Thoughts, however, are always interesting. There are no ‘filler’ thoughts with boring details and foreign character intentions. These are the kinds of things that flow through my mind daily. Not necessarily important, but they are comforting. Because they’re my thoughts and they’re a part of me, and I like being me.

So long as the world around me changes, thinking about ‘me’ will never stop being fascinating. I can attempt to ask questions to myself and I can answer them. There are very, very few people who will answer truthfully and thoughtfully when I want to understand the human mind. Those that do are diamonds, difficult to find, and sometimes don’t want to give their time to me or don’t recognize the importance of needing to understand.

I learnt a lot about myself last year. By thinking introspectively and discovering facets of myself I thought weren’t part of my personality. But it turns out, that part of my personality just didn’t have the environment it needed to exist. Now I know it’s there, it’s nice to no longer feel broken, which sounds somewhat sad, but it’s actually exhilarating.

If change were a hill or a bell curve last year, 2019 would be a cliff. My subconscious has realized this before the conscious. I’ve become obsessed with tidiness and anti-clutter, for a reason I have yet to become aware of. Frankly, there are worse symptoms to be expressing.

My brain is awash with thoughts, like waves at the beach that are all connected, but each one is different, because they’re part of the same sea. Again, they’re comforting, and not particularly private; but discerning importance is difficult when I know I should be sharing my thoughts more often.

And so instead of mulling over a topic and forcing myself to write, I’ve decided to just… write.

Welcome to my weird thoughts, I guess.