External Inputs

Something To Write

I'm looking for something to write.

And it’s not just about paper and pen. I’ve been looking in the shadows between sleep and sanity, in the silence after the music stops. I’ve looked in coffee cups, broken mirrors, and half-remembered conversations. But all I find is me—and my broken heart.

It’s funny how we chase meaning like it's something waiting to be uncovered, as if there’s a manuscript buried in the rubble of every failed connection. But maybe it’s just rubble. Maybe there’s no manuscript at all. Just debris we keep reinterpreting because it hurts less than admitting it meant nothing.

I don’t know what I was thinking when I said I wanted to see it—whatever "it" was. The truth? The end? The beginning? All I saw was black. No revelation. Just the kind of silence that presses against your skull, reminding you that you've already gone too far.

You were right.

Not in the moral sense. Not in the righteous sense. Just in that quiet, damning way people are right when they walk away and leave you to figure out why. You said I was reckless. You said I was playing God. You said I never really understood you. And maybe I didn’t. Maybe I only understood the version of you I constructed so I wouldn’t feel so alone.

You know what’s sick about heartbreak? It’s not the ache—it’s the clarity. The clarity that comes right after the collapse, when your body’s still reeling but your mind is lucid. I can say now with confidence that heartbreak is always a catalyst. It cracks the shell. But does it matter what crawls out?

And what if I picked the wrong path? What if this road I'm on is just another variation of the same mistake?

I remember the night you thought it was a thief. You panicked. You looked at me like I brought danger. And maybe I did. But it wasn't danger—I was saving you. I put you in that place to keep you from harm. I thought I was helping. I thought sacrificing myself in your eyes would be worth it. That once it all cleared up, you'd understand.

So I let you go.

Not to lose you, but to prove something. To prove I wasn't the monster you were trained to see. But I miscalculated. Your perception became the sentence. I put the blade down and still got labeled the killer.

And now I ask myself—why the hell do your thoughts still matter?

You walked away. Isn’t that the answer? Isn’t that enough of a closure? But no. The human brain is a machine that replays disasters in slow motion. Especially when guilt is involved. Especially when hope still flickers under the weight of despair.

I’m left questioning everything. Are all of these strange things real? Are you even real? Or did I just invent you in a fever dream of loneliness?

C.S. Lewis once wrote, "We read to know we are not alone." But what happens when you stop reading and realize that the person you were reaching for wasn’t holding the other end of the page? What if they were never reading you to begin with?

I guess I wouldn’t die if I didn’t court death so often.

But that’s the thing—death’s been flirting with me for a while. She leaves roses on the porch, rings the bell, and runs. I keep pretending not to see her. Not because I’m afraid—but because I still think I can outwrite her.

Is she accepting flowers today?

I don't know. But this life is fleeting, and that’s the only thing I’m sure of now. Everything else—the promises, the memories, the future plans—they’re all counterfeit. Designed to keep you anchored just long enough to break your legs when the floor collapses.

One thing is real: the bloom. The moment something beautiful emerges, stretches toward the light. But that moment is short. Flowers bloom once. Then the petals fall, the colors fade, and you’re left sweeping up a mess that once smelled like hope.

And still, I kept going.

Why? Maybe because I’ve always thought of myself as a guardian. Not in the heroic sense. But in the sense of someone who stands watch. Who keeps the gates closed, the candles lit, the monsters outside. I protected people who never asked to be protected. And resented me for doing it. Like the soldier accused of invasion when all he did was stand between the enemy and the door.

But here’s the truth I’ve been avoiding: I am a miserable wretch.

I am both the guardian and the jailer. I locked myself in a prison I built for others. I fought battles no one asked me to fight, and in doing so, I became the thing they feared.

And maybe that’s why those affected by ancient cult powers—by old trauma, old belief systems, twisted inheritances—make such trash decisions. Because the past doesn’t whisper. It screams. It dictates. And if you’re not careful, you start mistaking the scream for your own voice.

I can’t tell what’s mine anymore.

I want to say I’m healing. But maybe I’m just learning how to limp in more convincing ways. I want to say I’ve forgiven you. But I don’t even know what forgiveness looks like when the one you’re angry at was also the one you were trying to save.

Maybe that’s the joke.

Maybe all these crossroads and catalysts and poetic metaphors are just distractions. Maybe life isn’t about redemption arcs or neat conclusions. Maybe it’s just a slow unraveling. And we cling to meaning the way a man clings to a sinking boat—because the alternative is drowning in chaos.

I’m writing this because I need to.

Not because I expect you to read it. Not because I expect you to care. But because if I don’t get this out, it will rot inside me. Like a forgotten bouquet left in a sealed box—moldy, sour, and once so fucking beautiful.

You were right.

And I was wrong in all the ways that count.

But at least now, the silence has a voice. And the blackness I saw? Maybe it wasn’t empty. Maybe it was just waiting for me to stop pretending I wasn’t already in the dark.

Maybe that’s where we all start again.