There are hundreds of things that can be said, thousands of things to write about, a million stories, a unique voice. Yet, I find myself without even one, as a lack of confidence prevents me from committing to a narrative.
There are the inspirational and motivating angles. The ones that tell you to never give up, keep being you, and keep doing things. But who am I to inspire anyone else to do things, when I do the bare minimum?
There are the lifestyle guides that teach you tips and tricks of dealing with everyday problems. I’m a young bachelor — what can I offer that doesn’t exist already in the world?
There are the original fictional works, the ones that transport you into wonderful worlds of escapism. These create universes and microcosms, clans and individuals, horror and friendship. And there are thousands if not millions who can do it more eloquently than I will ever manage. What then is my value contribution in this land of behemoths?
And then there are the therapeutic angles that I would write purely for myself, to let out anger and misery and joy and fear. These are the angles I can take that relieve panic, depression, and loneliness. Articles about these relieve the pressure I feel in always messaging someone first. I write this paragraph first, because that is the thing on my mind, and I struggle to write anything else in this article.
I don’t know what my voice is worth. And I don’t know how much I can supplement solitude. At this time, the only thing I know is this. I am tired of reaching out.