In the quiet moments of my life, I often find myself paradoxically overwhelmed by a profound sense of emptiness. Bilbo's words from "The Hobbit" resonate with me: "I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread." This feeling of weariness, like an overextended sheet of butter, has been my lifelong companion. It sways me to sleep as a newborn, and it echoes in my every step.
Emptiness possesses a colossal presence that defies comparison. It grows insatiably, regardless of my efforts. I am a man torn between two extremes: profound sadness, where my eyes fixate on the darkest abyss within my soul, and an indomitable spirit that refuses to surrender to despair, at least not entirely.
In today's modern world, with all its terrors, complexities, and distractions, we are urged to conform, to be absorbed into a homogenous sameness that masquerades as individuality. It lures us into surrender, tempting us with momentary pleasures, whether they be solitary or shared. Pills offer fleeting respites from the relentless assault of life's struggles.
As I type these words, I am a dual persona—both Jekyll and Hyde. But instead of debauchery and remorse, my dual nature grapples with hollowness and resurfaces to offer fervent prayers. Tonight, my thoughts have been consumed by self-critique, tallying the losses, recounting failed romances, and lamenting the separation from the warmth of human connection.
I write to quell these thoughts, to drain the despair from my being before it engulfs me. Writing is my sanctuary, a lifeboat in a turbulent sea, and a sparrow carrying a twig of hope.
I write not merely to fill the emptiness, both on the page and within myself. Each keystroke is a declaration of defiance, a protest against the void, a plea for meaning. The battle against the profane emptiness and the isolation is an illusion. Emptiness is a reflection of nothing itself, a concept that cannot truly exist, regardless of what physics may claim. Emptiness serves as the fertile soil of being, defining and fertilizing our existence. We must act as midwives to our own souls, birthing our own purpose.
At this hour, I seek forgiveness for my omissions, those moments when I neglected my passions and vitality. Writing flows through my veins like lifeblood, fighting against the virus of resignation. Every word is not a self-reproach but a testament to my fellow beings, to God's grace and benevolence. Writing is a gift working through me, urging me to nurture the fullness of my being. For nothing else can fill the abounding emptiness.
“I am a man torn between two extremes: profound sadness, where my eyes fixate on the darkest abyss within my soul, and an indomitable spirit that refuses to surrender to despair, at least not entirely.”
And here I thought I was the only one.