Hypothermia of the Heart

I can barely remember the last time I wrote something simply because I wanted to. I simply haven’t had any ideas or thoughts I’ve wanted to express, which, I suppose, is a good thing. The only time I ever feel like writing is when I feel a particular way. Writing, for me, is a way of intellectualizing emotions that I don’t want to feel. Through abstraction I am able to distance myself from my discomfort. It becomes something to manipulate, rather than something that is manipulating me. But when I am happy, no words will come because I do not call for them. It is only when I start feeling that dreadfully familiar weight on my chest that I feel the need to chase the cursor. Words and sentences become handholds, something for me to grasp as I attempt to extricate myself from my own negativity. It is as if, by pinning those feelings to a page, I can remove them from myself. And here I am, writing again, even if it is only a paragraph. A part of me is ashamed of this. What did I do wrong that I must feel melancholy again? But it rarely is a matter of doing, and simply a matter of feeling. This winter is finally getting to me. Consider this paragraph a plea to the seasons for change. Bring me warmth and sunshine, flowers and breeze. I can’t take any more of these icy streets.


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