Beginnings have never come easy to me. I have struggled with first sentences all my life. I learnt vocabulary, I understood meanings, I ignored my instinct. I find the words but never the right way to string them together to create a start. I always screw it up. There’s the stuttering, the hesitating, and the debilitating. It’s hard being a writer, or even a person, in the state I’m in. I live in a semi-conscious world. There’s the thoughts I want to bring to life, and then there’s the words that come out instead. It’s impossible to say what I want to say. There is no speech that can justify the images that come to life within my mind. There is no language that can demonstrate the beauty of my soul. There is no structure to describe the way I am. I have structure externally- the bones snapped into the right sockets, the eyes catching what they are supposed to see, the mouth molded into a smile. But there is no structure to the internal. Inside, I am a jumble of veins tangled in blood. Inside, it’s a mess. There is no way to see if everything is ok. There are no signs that confirm my vitality. There’s just me.
I want to be the inside, but I live on the outside. I cannot run away from reality. My inside will only see the outside when I am gone. Only when the mess spills out- intestines, lungs, and a heart. A heart that is dented and collapsed but a heart, nonetheless. Then, maybe, they will see that I was alive all along. That I had a beginning and an end.