burning black hole
An old entry from my journal, written during one of the lowest points of my life, the "dark night of the soul".
6 Jan, 2020
why do you find it so hard to petrify your memories of people and experiences into a positive thing? or something that can spur positive transformation? why is your yearning so demanding and painful? this feeling of unfinished work, your desire to ride out the rest of the foreseeable narrative, even if it means plunging to the ends of the abyss. maybe you want to see that abyss, you want to transgress and let that spur you to return.
at times, in these past weeks, I've envisioned myself as a black hole in relation to others, a terrible pull and a simultaneously comforting one. myself, I feel like a burning ball of something akin to destruction and the extremity of nature. like there's something within me, not the me I've consciously built up and learnt to care for, something foreign, primal and volatile, a phenomena daring me to enter its territory. I didn't even notice it piquing my curiosity. it's like it just violently entered my periphery and here I am teetering between destruction and rebirth. I am burning; I am atom fusing and atom fissioning; I radiate so much energy and yet an empty hungry expanse lies within me.