Writing Forums

Writing Forums is a privately-owned, community managed writing environment. We provide an unlimited opportunity for writers and poets of all abilities, to share their work and communicate with other writers and creative artists. We offer an experience that is safe, welcoming and friendly, regardless of your level of participation, knowledge or skill. There are several opportunities for writers to exchange tips, engage in discussions about techniques, and grow in your craft. You can also participate in forum competitions that are exciting and helpful in building your skill level. There's so much more for you to explore!

"Hittin A Wall" or "The Roundabout"- Essay (1 Viewer)

It's time to be honest.

I feel unhealthy. Inside and out. No matter what I've done I still feel like the person I've related to most in my life is the psychotic character I played in my play. Who steers himself on a course of destruction.

And that seriously begins to scare me.

Life feels routine. Boring.

"Do something you've never done before."

How many times have I prescribed this to others? How come I still feel that at times I live a self absorbed life for others? I use smiles to fill up an empty existence. I use laughter as the music for the silent hall within myself.

I believe all people I have ever known to be beautiful...even those I have been cruel to, or claim hatred for? The only person I can't find complete beauty in is myself but I recognize what I am and am not..which in itself is a beauty some cannot find. But is it my undoing? Or am I potential? . I feel I am a well of unfinished dreams, incomplete potential.

I view the dead as fortunate, but fight so hard to stay alive. It feels ridiculous. I'm at peace at death, but I wage war on the inevitable.

Is this life?

A blinking line suggests that it is and isn't. I stare at this entry, knowing that I could fill it and still never get any closer to "essence", to life. Everyone lives...but I wonder with the layers of knowledge of existence and expression is everyone's life just fabricated?

All religions. All accepted "normal" social norms. Are these the continuing spark of an uninterested race? Is no one original? Can anyone be original in a world that theroetically was named by God's chosen man...or just a bunch of lucky neanderthals?

Is the cure at this point- just spontaneously jumping into the gym? Or is it visiting someone with a paper on a wall that says they know the mind?

Lovers who I thought would know the beauty of matrimony break upon the eve of love, and I see fruitless marriages every place I go.

Is the knowledge of the all-mighty really that confusing? Why is it that it's so hard to reconcile opposites? Why do we continue to live life between the colors of black and white?

I see others that have been selected by divinity, blind chance, or natural selection living, perishing, breathing, smiling, suffering.

I feel like the void before creation, or at least like unfinished creation. I keep looking for the God of my mother, father, and family...but see nothing, aside the gray of neutrality. Perhaps it is that I feel no inclination towards anything that I feel that void, or is it the void that begs for creation that will continue to be compromised amongst itself?

Why is it that lines mark us? Why is it something as simple as who one has sex with can create a divide? Why is it that two people of a variant of love and mutual respect fight?

Why is it that God seems to have sent a creative blueprint, but placed the tools in such a manner that man continues to create and distort? Why do we have Will? And is it the lack of will on a Tuesday, Friday, or blind sided Sunday that ruins us. Or is it...plan? selection?

Why does it seem like all questions run together in a perpetual question mark? Why is it that those who should be heard are mute, and those who speak often on falsehoods thrive? Why do opposites chase eachother into days? Sun and moon, love and hate...and why, at times you can find a convenient place between to stagnate a progressive life that is still moving forward?

A simple overdose. A simple red wrist line.

True, these would end the questions. But isn't the most beautiful agony the question itself? Why do I beg the question?

Is there a place between question and answer? Is that in itself not life? Or is life just elevator music on to death?

It's all a division of zero. Even mathematics is unending. But is art? Will not the slate of creation be wiped clean by the artist?

I must think of this. But how can one think, when speculating upon the depths of nothing and everything at once? Such must be the plight of all knowing beings, if they truly exist, and still set against them standards for questions.

I feel like I'm at the cross roads of a beginning end. And I want a way out. I feel sick. I feel less than honest in my most honest hour. I am just an illusion of mortality but more real than I would like to bargain for. Is life a plight? Or am I just following myself in a fit of philosophical masturbation?

Is the answer in knowing nothing? Or is it the pursuit of knowledge that fills up the empty nothing with the solution that will ruin everything.

I don't know. I just feel like I'm dying. And I am. When? What? Where? Why? Who? and the fact I can't answer the last in that series is what scares me the most.

I need help.
Last edited:


Senior Member
do you really need help?... or is this just a bit of creative non-fiction?

i have to admit i could only scan it, since it's too 'me, me, me' for my taste and offers no answers to the endless questions... sorry...

if you really mean that last part, i'd say hie thee to the nearest shrinkery posthaste!

love and healing hugs, maia


Senior Member
i'm happy to know it's not your inner self crying out for serious help, my little cuddly-cub!... now go write something fun, willya?

love and mammabearhugs, m