Sometimes it’s easy to forget: the things that are important or what you love. Because the distractions never come like a marauding beast yanking your arm and ripping all that you cherish from your chest. 

It often begins as an innocuous brush against the shoulder; an allure to the senses drawing you away from the fissures growing larger and larger. Until everything just crashes and crumbles away into this vacuous chamber, without hope to be salvaged. Well…that’s the best way I can describe what’s happened to me.

The weight of the pen, its fit into my palm and against the grooves of my fingers – I forgot that feeling. The smooth glide of ink filling empty pages; the catharsis of emptying my mind of its concerns and too-large imaginings – I couldn’t bring myself to do it anymore. Because I was too caught up. Caught up in nothing. In doing nothing. In being nothing.

I could blame it on my big move to another country on my own, because adapting took so much more than just my energy. But whenever I’d sit to write, those blank pages seemed to permeate my spirit. The truth is, there was nothing there. I dug and searched. But it was like scratching nails against concrete, til they snapped and left my fingers bleeding.

Part of me was desperate to come up with something – anything to reassure my mind that I wasn’t dead on the inside. But for a good while…that’s what it was. I was, quite literally, empty. And the quiet nights that normally coaxed out my deeper thoughts and fears…only brought unrelated whispers; the voices of neighbors; squeals from a fussy child. The annoyed screech of a cat. But nothing came from within.

I used music to fill that dead silence. Chatty Youtubers. But when the noise faded, I had to contend with that empty quiet. Loneliness.

That’s what I have to deal with: the reality of being truly alone. Here, I know no-one. And each day I return to a tiny apartment holding the bare necessities for a functional life. Which made me realize how much I took the presence of family for granted. Now, I no longer have the comfort of knowing someone is in the next room…or near if I just want to be close to another being.

It’s a bit painful to admit. That I am lonely. That living alone isn’t as fun as I’d fantasized. But this is a start; to pour into my mind and arouse the need to write once again. Maybe then, this pressing weight of nothing will ease.