These days, my mind is blank. I’m fighting the urge of an afternoon nap to write this. Despite having read numerous books this summer, despite having spent a week alone in my childhood home, despite helping a very good friend find an amazing career, I feel like none of it is worth telling.
How do you know if something is worth telling? How do you decide what life lesson, thought or idea is worth expressing and sharing? As it is, I feel like none of what I felt, thought or ideated in the past few months deserves to be set on type, to be digitally engraved on some server halfway across the world and then pinged back to your screen.
It’s not that I don’t care about you, dear readers. In fact, I do. I wish I had something to say to you, something insightful or funny or thoughtful. I wish I could enlighten you and entertain you and provoke emotion in you. But in the end, all that comes out of my mind is a big nothing–or, more precisely a big “nothing I say is interesting”.
I don’t know whether it’s the world that’s making me this way, or if I am the cause of my own inability to find interest in even my own thoughts. I am plagued by concern for the quantitative: dollars, hours, word counts. These have dulled my edge for the qualitative: for the profound, the beautiful, the meaningful.
Maybe it’s not that I have nothing to say. Maybe what I have to say is so difficult and so traumatizing that I refuse to let the words out of my mouth. At least as thoughts they can remain unformed, unspoken, un-real. They have no sway over the world. If I say them, I don’t know what will happen to me. It might change my life. In fact, I know it will.
And just as I refuse to do anything about my weight gain, I refuse to speak the words. Maybe I eat and drink because I’m trying to keep the words stuffed inside a mind that’s too hazy to grasp for the truth.
Maybe having nothing to say is actually about having so much to say, but refusing to say it. Because once I start talking… maybe I won’t stop until it’s all out.