"I Don't Know"

I realized I haven't written for myself in a while, and I started to wonder why. The more I thought about it, the more I was able to conclude how it is because I don't have words for what I'm feeling. One could speculate that I am, in fact, feeling wordless.

Words are what give us meaning. A word is nothing but something that signifies something else. Can something have meaning if it doesn't have a word, or something to signify its existence? I find myself groping for words to try to understand how I'm feeling. I've been with words brimming on my tongue with no way to let them off. Perhaps I am feeling meaningless.

It's not depression--I know what that feels like. I spend years clawing my way from the bottom. From having to count the reasons every morning so that I would be reminded the worth of getting out of bed. And for a few months a while ago, I was very happy. Every morning I'd find myself feeling untouchable, that no matter how many people would try to tear me down, they'd never be able to even make a dent.

But now I'm in this odd state in the middle, where nothing seems to be happening. But at the same time, everything is happening. It's as if I'm so numb that my life is passing me by without a word from my mouth to try and stop it. I don't like that, because wasting time is wasting a non-renewable resource. 

Maybe my life is lacking meaning right now. Maybe it's the relationships I find myself in, as meaningless as they are fleeting. Maybe it's because I find no joy in my studies anymore. Maybe it's because my family is glass, long since shattered on the floor. Maybe it's because as quickly as I make friends, I lose them.

Nothing ever stays. It was not so long ago that I was so happy, and not so long ago that I was so sad. I'm floating somewhere in the middle, between knowing and not. Between insecurity and safety. Between love and hatred.

If nothing ever stays, I know I can take comfort in knowing that this, too, shall pass. It's just a matter of getting though, and hoping no one takes notice for long enough so that I may escape the ever pressing questions, most frequently, "Are you okay?"

Because there has never been a more dissatisfying answer as, "I don't know."

Future Cat Lady

With me,
it's either too many emotions,
or not enough.

"She's cold."
"She's funny."
"She's too hard to handle."
"Her heart is in the right place."
"She's such a bitch."

"You can't please everyone,"
they try to tell me.
But I can't seem to please anyone.

The jokes run out.
My patience runs out.
Words just spill out,
and no one ever understands.

I'll cling to who ever stays
because everyone always leaves.
And whether I hold too tight,
or keep them at arm's length,
they leave anyway.

I'm not sure what I could have done,
to make any of them stay.
Sure, it wasn't all my fault;
they weren't good for me,
But the good ones won't even step my way.

It's not like I don't try;
I try so hard to be perfect.
But no one seems to notice,
and if they do, they don't care.

But I've consented to my fate,
to an empty house, and empty bed,
Wrought iron fences, cobwebs, and hate.
And fifty cats living on my estate.

~ E J Royson

"Write about this!"

I think it is hilarious when people angrily tell me, "Go write about this, [enter insult here, most commonly "bitch"]!" A part of me is like, "I freaking will!", and another part of me is like, "You're not even worth the time." Either way, their attempt to throw my career in my face is almost always meant sarcastically. What is so funny about this is I don't think people realize just how much writers take from their own experiences. My friend and I, who both write fantasy, sit and make up stories about people while we sit in public. When I sit down and write, whether it is a conscious decision or not, people in my life work their way onto the pages.

Sometimes people ask me to write them into my writing with sincerity. When that happens, I tell them straight what I intend to do with their character. When people bitterly tell me to write in a story about how awful they have been, I do. But I don't tell them. Usually their tendencies come out in the antagonists of my stories. Not all antagonists are "villains," and sometimes the positives I see in the people who have mistreated me are reflected. But when I'm writing an antagonist, usually I play up their faults. I mean, what better way to depict a jobless-drunk who disrespects women than to use someone I actually know?

It really is just a fact of life, that if you are friends with a writer, you will end up in their stories. If you piss off a writer, you will end up the antagonist in their story, and the character will most likely suffer a horrible death. So tread carefully. And telling us, "Write about this!" usually just gives us a good chuckle. And then we do.

~E J Royson

Nothing Can Remain

Every time I put my pen to page, the ink scatters in blotted swirls that torment me by muddling what I need to tell myself. The thoughts are brimming at the edge of my fingertips, but get lost in translation. The irony of calling myself a writer, when the words just won't come.

The thoughts will come, and they flash before my eyes in hauntingly beautiful images and memories. They do not seem to care how they torment me either, by showing me everything I've lost and all that I have yet to lose. They aim to drive me mad.

There is so much I've yet to say, if only I could pull apart the entangled webs of my emotions once separate, but now mingling and mocking my need to move on. Maybe I've long since held what was already gone, and that's what makes this so much easier.

"Is this really good for you?" I've been asked, and while I ponder, I realize I had been ready to move on for a year, but having turned away from so many for so many times before, it would not be out of turn to say I was afraid of ending up alone. It would be right to say I still am.

There is nothing quite like facing the cold nights without the warmth of another, nothing quite like getting excited and having no one to talk to, and nothing quite like realizing you will once again have to explain the horrors of your past so the next one might hope to understand.

And yet, there is nothing like seeing the horizon lighting up with hues of sunlight, reminding you there is always another to come, nothing like seeing the horizon shrink away to deep shades of sorrowing darkness to remind you there is always another to go.

This constant war we wage trying to find the light that will stay--the warmth with us on cold nights, the voices comforting us through our life, the understanding without needing a word--is lost as we walk through a life where nothing, good or bad, can stay,

A world where nothing can remain.

~E J Royson

Refractions

One day I looked in the mirror and was surprised,
I realized the face looking back was not mine.
She was similar of course, in looks and grimace,
with the same lips, turned down in penance.
But she was not me, though she was all I had
after the others had all gone and fled.
They left me to my misery, alone and cold,
and let me unravel down to my shattered bones.
Something caused me to smile at this girl in the glass
and she seemed friendly enough, for she smiled back.
With a little wave, I realized she was the one
who would get me through having come undone.
The only one beside me, the only one who cared
for she was only happy when my happiness flared.
This girl in the mirror needed me just as much
as I needed to use her as my crutch.
I pinned up her hair and gave her lips color
I painted her eyelashes and made her eyes fuller.
She shook her head sadly, said "It's not what you see,
It's what's on the inside, who you choose to be.
They may notice your acts and your appearance,
but it's how you make them feel that makes all the difference."
I realized she was right, she was much smarter you see--
To make others happy, I had to start with me.
The world will smile with me, I explained to the girl.
She nodded in agreement and smiles with me still.

~E J Royson

Should've Jumped

She was hungry, but she could not eat.

She was tired, but she could not sleep.

She thought of just how easy it would be,

to step out in front of the car and into peace.

No more words inside her head.

No more voices bringing her dread.

Just the sight of on coming lights

and the bright blissfulness of night.

How fickle life turns out to be

One minute you're there, the next free.

If she had just jumped when she thought

Trying so hard wouldn't have been for naught

~E J Royson

Ashen Goodbyes

Could the clock turn back,

what would remain?

Could we change our mistakes

without going insane?

If I could reach back through,

the years would shatter

Turning to ash in my palms, 

the lonely dust to scatter.

Too many wrongdoings,

I could roll the dice

Too many impossible outcomes,

I can't afford the price.

I want to be okay with the past

But I've nowhere to start.

Sitting here, the ash scattered

trying to mend my broken heart.

I shouldn't have loved him.

I knew better than it.

But I can't change the past,

Only to the future can I commit.

I'd turn back the clock

and swiftly erase just this one

but how could that possibly

save me from coming undone?

~E J Royson