“We are the Ink that gives the white page a meaning.” You know, no matter how many times I hear that, I feel like I never quite actually hear it. Of course, I understand the words. They are imprinted into me, each time hitting just a little bit harder. And I can focus on them and feel them, but I never quite…hear them. I suppose you may think I’m insane. Lord knows Lucy does. I try to tell her, I try to tell her how I feel. How empty words seem to be. But she only laughs. She only disregards me. I suppose not being able to hear the words is quite similar to my own life. I simply keep going and going, never quite improving, never quite moving. I get up each day and I don’t know what for. But it keeps getting just a teensy bit harder every time. Lucy watches me and she becomes confused by my odd volte-face. She asks, “Noah, how are you?”
“Fine.”
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know.”
And I continue my life like this. I can’t seem to taste the sugary sweetness of a piece of candy. I can’t smell the earthy aroma out in the woods. I can’t see all the different colors in Lucy’s eyes. I’m never moving, never getting anywhere. But does it necessarily hurt? Maybe, maybe not. If nothing else, it creates for me numbness, a blank stare, an unfocused walk, a life unlived.
And then, some day soon, I’ll feel no more. The days will have blended together, becoming a blurred, ruined image. I can no longer discern between brokenness and happiness. I am spilled over, spilled upon. I feel nothing, I am nothing. And what do I do then? Do I attempt to keep moving? Or do I just lie back, relax, and let the sleepy numbness overtake me?
These words mean, nothing. They have blurred together, and you cannot understand what they say. There is no point to them. They have no purpose.