There are days when my brain feels hollow, as if every thought has drained away, leaving nothing but white noise. Other times, the words I want to say feel scrambled, like an anagram or a secret code I’ve somehow forgotten how to solve. I re-read some of the poems I wrote as a teenager and I felt a sense of disconnect—like I knew they were my words but the voice belonged to someone else entirely.
There’s also been a lingering sense of loss in the silence of not writing. Part of my exhaustion has come from my persistence in searching for my One Thing—you know, that one passion, purpose, and defining thread that’s supposed to tie your entire life together. Ironically, I’ve been ignoring my One Thing and my search for an alternative that never existed has left me feeling empty and obscure.
I’ve come to realise that despite the wasted days of doomscrolling, I still can’t relate to people online who profit inauthentically from pain points and sell ideas rather than realities. The regurgitation of advice lies and hollow mantras like “hustle harder”, “find your niche”, and “build your brand” have piled up like debris in a river, damming my creative flow.
Because I’m not a brand, I’m a person… and life is not a formula, so why are we led to believe that it should be reduced to one?
Maybe that’s why I’ve felt so disconnected; I’ve been measuring myself against a world I don’t even want to belong to. Maybe I just need to simplify—write when my thoughts are heavy and read when I have nothing left to say. Pick up the thread before time cuts it short.
There’s a quote that keeps circling me lately and I don’t know its origins but it feels like a gentle nudge from the universe:
“If your mind is loud, write. If your mind is empty, read.”
So, I’m starting again, simply, by reading Poe’s Poems. A green clothbound edition from 1869 that I picked up from Strand’s rare book room many years ago. Its pages have browned with age but the beauty and authenticity of its voice has endured.
When I hold it, it feels like I’m touching a fragile fragment of time and yet, it symbolises the immortality of words—how they wait quietly in the dark and dust until we’re ready to return to their pages.
The dust settles, the pages open, and I remember: I’ve been holding the thread all along.
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