Emptiness

I can't write anything. I've got two posts marked "Draft" waiting for me, but I can't seem to face them with the respect they deserve. Belonging and Responsibility to Christ. The words just sit there and mock me as I stare back. I can't find the emotion to write them and keep them sincere. I know that if I were to try, I'd be forcing out each syllable and twisting the letters to fit a lie. That, dear friends, is the last thing I want.
I wrote a poem once about how I couldn't write. It ended up being a story-poem with the plot line as follows: I couldn't write, so I sat there looking at an empty page. Finally, inspiration. I write about the empty page I stare at. It was simple, really, and not very long. But this is a different kind of emptiness and how can I write about a blank white canvas on a screen? This emptiness is one that's full of questions. But the questions don't shout or demand answers. They lie there, quiet. Now and again one will whisper, but not often enough to break this feeling. In the silence I see my past and a thousand more questions come rushing in. Rushing in and crashing like a wave. Like something that should make noise and rip apart these foggy seams, but no. This is a silent film. The only sounds are my fingers on the keys and the crunch of pretzel or granola. What kind of backdrop is that? What sort of emotion is this? It doesn't really have a name. It is an emptiness, but it is full of silent songs and questions and memories. And how can an emptiness be full anyway? Tell me, what did I do? What did I do to cause this? I can't escape it. I can run and shout and scream all I want, but I don't make any more noise than do these questions that cling onto me. I'm not even sure how much of this makes sense. I want to feel despair, but instead I feel numb. Pain, joy, anger... anything is welcome if only it will break this down.
I miss my friends. The ones who never knew how much I loved them. The people I want so much now to sit down with and talk to. The ones I promised never to let go. I miss them. I could be real around them and not worry about them judging me. Now, I have to be careful what I say and do just because I know people are watching me. They're looking me up and down and putting a label on me. The different one. Not different in the stereotypical Christian "Oh everyone will see there's something different about you and wonder what it is you have that they don't" type. Not the "everyone's different and that's what makes us unique" kind either. Outcast different. I suppose I shouldn't care. It never bothered me much before. I suppose it doesn't bother me so much now, either, but I think I wish they'd let me breathe. That they'd allow me to take down my mask for a while and give me some space so that I could be who I am in the truest sense. I wish that almost as much as I wish I could form a coherent thought. Or a decent blog post for that matter. If only it weren't for this emptiness...