Writing used to be my safe place. A space to tend wounds, to gather the scattered pieces in my head.
But lately, even that place feels too quiet.
I took my usual valium and sertraline tonight. I know how they work, how they feel. But still, my eyes refuse to close.
Outside, the stars hang quietly in the sky. Their cold light makes me feel like they’re watching me, sitting alone, holding my phone, trying to write something, anything. But no words come out.
“Look at that star,” I whispered to myself. “Its light took thousands of years to reach us. Maybe by now, the star is already gone. We only see its leftover light.”
Kafka once said,
“We are all trapped in wounds that no longer bleed.”
Tonight, my wound is these words that refuse to be written.
People call it writer’s block. But for me, it’s more than that. I feel lost. My head is too noisy. My heart feels heavy. Words that used to come easily now stay silent.
I don’t know who will read this. But if you, whoever you are, have ever felt like this, maybe tonight we are looking at the same sky. The same stars. Both of us quiet, confused, waiting for something we can’t name.
Camus once wrote,
“In the middle of winter, I learned that there was an invincible summer inside me.”
But tonight, winter feels endless. Like Betelgeuse, a red, dying star that will explode someday. Yet here on Earth, we won’t know until 640 years later. It feels like a pain that arrives too late.
The cursor on my screen keeps blinking, waiting for me to type. But my fingers won’t move. It feels like looking at a dead star. You know its light isn’t real, but still you stare, because what else can you do?
Maybe this isn’t about losing words. Maybe it’s about being honest. Accepting that some parts of me, like those stars, have gone out a long time ago. Maybe these words are just old light from something that’s no longer there.
Nietzsche said,
“We are all afraid of the truth.”
And tonight, the truth is, I’m still writing, even though I know some of this light is a lie. Like stars we admire, though they might have died long before humans even learned to write.
And so, the night keeps going.
I’m still here.
With stars that might already be dead.
With medicine that won’t bring sleep.
With a blank page that feels like a grave for light with no source.
Sometimes I wish the night would talk to me. But it stays quiet. Like the sky, hiding the death of stars while pretending to be beautiful.
Like Rilke once said,
“Beauty is nothing but the start of terror we can barely stand.”
Maybe writing is like that too.
I look up again.
Those starlights.
Pieces of something from long ago.
Or maybe just an illusion that something once existed before it disappeared.
Tonight, the sky feels so calm.
The stars look like memories falling from my head.
I want to catch one and hold it tight.
Maybe to have something to hold besides silence.
The pills have dissolved, but sleep still won’t come.
My head is full of voices I can’t control.
Something keeps knocking inside my chest.
Like a memory I didn’t invite, but it still knows how to find its way home.
Lately, I’ve been trying to let go.
Or at least pretending to know how.
I’m learning to accept silence.
Even though it’s never something I chose.
Sometimes, someone leaves without truly being gone.
They just move far enough so we don’t say hello anymore.
I try to believe this isn’t a bitter ending.
Maybe it’s just a pause, though I don’t know when it will end.
For now I’ll just let the night pass.
Because what else can I do?
I’ll leave everything right here.
Among stars that might already be dead.
And words that too scared to be born.
After all, not everything needs to be finished tonight. Right?