Is there a second draft of this? 

Can I write a version that is outside of myself? Am I even capable of writing anything outside of myself? 

If I were what would that look like? Does it feel dishonest? Does it feel like there is nothing that I can say about that which I haven’t lived because it is not true for me? How is it that one can empathise so well with another but one cannot put oneself into another’s viewpoint from which to write or to worK? Does it matter? Should that even ever be the goal? Does this fetishisation of the other come from that? Do we reify that which we do not know when working from a perspective that is not actually our own? Or is that how experience is shared and elaborated upon? Why are there so many questions without answers? Why are there only questions, questions, questions, in perpetuity, never able to exhaust themselves. Why can we never be satiated? Why are we this way, in the endless cycle of ourselves, why can we never just be, why can we never be happy, why can we never. 

What is impossible in our humanity, why can’t it ever feel like being at peace with humanity, what even is peace, is peace a thing, or a state of being, or an existence, is peace a frequency, or a vibration, or the settling of an atom in space? Is peace even a reality at all or is it a microcosm of nothingness that we ascribe some sort of meaning to fill the void of actual nothingness from which we all emerge, and to which we will all return – that faces our every moment. 

Why can being feel so hard, when it is so fundamental? 

I’m learning I’m not really good with prompts, or writing when I have to write. 

I get into this quite pessimistic loop where I cannot process new ideas or creativity, it’s just the feedback that’s playing in my mind all the time onto paper, or in this case screen I guess. It does not feel creative, it feels forced and now we have these words, that perhaps we did not really need.