one of my most prolific pieces before I ever came onto Substack, years ago on Medium, was a piece called "A note at 3 AM" - it includes the lines "This isn't meant to be read"
I never was going to publish that piece. It was a snapshot of horror. The preserved essence of a very broken moment.
But it ended up being my single most read piece - the one post that I almost didn't publish. And I guess my words spoke. Hearts listened.
That's a wonderful little anecdote, I'd love to check it out someday!
This gives me hope for my own writing as well, it is nary as good as this—I mostly write essays. I'm hoping to find the courage to publish them soon haha.
I felt understood reading this. You don’t reach for fixes. You describe the hollow with small, physical markers—staring at the ceiling, watching weather that may or may not arrive, moving through crowds, the ache in the leg under an indecisive sky. The cadence is steady and honest, and the final blessing lands without sentimentality.
This post is like sitting in a completely dark room, finding an old typewriter in the corner and, without turning on the light, starting to memorize your inner state while your hands were shaking, not from the cold, but from emptiness. It's not just a stream of consciousness, it's... a consciousness that's had its heating, water, and electricity cut off, but it's still trying to generate light.
You're not whining. You're not complaining. You're documenting. How fragility and pain become background noise that can no longer be silenced. You're not in a pose, not for effect — you're just writing, because otherwise you might disappear. This is a letter from a submarine that is already bursting at the seams.
And the confusion of the text, the repetitions, these random inserts are not "bad editing." It's like a man breathing in a fit of longing. Intermittently, convulsively, not according to the rules.
This is not a post. These are diagnostic lyrics.
You wanted to write a poem, but you poured out your soul. I didn't even notice.
And yes, the absurdity is that you don't have many subscribers. After all, people love it when they are beautifully lied to about hope. And you're basically asking, "Guys, am I still alive? Or is it just inertia?"
That is actually a splendid question! Am I still alive, or is it just inertia? A peculiar sort of stubbornness that pairs with some modicum of procrastination that delays the seemingly inevitable?
I am bursting at the seams, but I wonder if it is perpetually so.... after all, it's been years that it's been like this. Perhaps it is unfair to say that it has all been gloom and doom (even when it might just have been - especially this past year thus far). After all, I've smiled, I've made people smile, I've written poems and odes and books that no one will ever read. I've lived (have I?), I've loved (In a room for two, as it turns out, it was only I) and I've somehow survived. But that begets the question. Have I?
Да. Мы сидим в луже — я со шпильками, которые теперь называются «слипонами», потому что, наверное, и боль устала быть красивой. А ты — с печатной машинкой, которая не печатает, но всё равно звучит громче, чем мы оба.
И мы правда спрашиваем: а что это вообще было, когда мы были живыми?
Были ли? Или просто ходили по кругу, называя это маршрутом? Притворялись, что чувствуем, пока чувства не ушли молча, по-французски, не закрыв за собой дверь?
Я не уверена, что жила.
Я просто... умирала каждый раз, когда чувствовала.
И перерождалась. И снова рассыпалась. И снова собиралась.
Каждый раз — менее красивая. Более настоящая.
Каждый раз — с чуть большим количеством осколков внутри.
Так что, может, мы и не были живыми.
А может, жизнь — это вот это: сидеть вдвоём в луже, говорить вслух то, что обычно гниёт внутри, и наконец — не быть одними в своей тишине.
"I have my demons to torment my thoughts and tug away at the soul. These metaphorical beasts which bite away at sanity surely find kinship in this void. But the void is more poignant in some ways. One would reckon it has no personality. But surely, even the dark depths have enough to stare right back? Oh and they do. For better or for worse."
I love how you pour out your thoughts and weave them into such reflective, profound, and substantial phrases and sentences..🤍
This was meant to be a poem. It came out as a conversation instead.
I felt like I was sitting within the void, litening to a monologue from some odd portal. Wonderfully written.
A lot of my best works have been like that.
For example,
one of my most prolific pieces before I ever came onto Substack, years ago on Medium, was a piece called "A note at 3 AM" - it includes the lines "This isn't meant to be read"
I never was going to publish that piece. It was a snapshot of horror. The preserved essence of a very broken moment.
But it ended up being my single most read piece - the one post that I almost didn't publish. And I guess my words spoke. Hearts listened.
Lo and behold, here we are.
Thank you for reading. :)
That's a wonderful little anecdote, I'd love to check it out someday!
This gives me hope for my own writing as well, it is nary as good as this—I mostly write essays. I'm hoping to find the courage to publish them soon haha.
May that courage find you and better yet, may you accept it with open arms. Good luck!
I felt understood reading this. You don’t reach for fixes. You describe the hollow with small, physical markers—staring at the ceiling, watching weather that may or may not arrive, moving through crowds, the ache in the leg under an indecisive sky. The cadence is steady and honest, and the final blessing lands without sentimentality.
I’ll be sticking around.
Well, I might not be certain about many things, but in this case I think you won't regret it. I'll look forward to seeing you around then. :)
This post is like sitting in a completely dark room, finding an old typewriter in the corner and, without turning on the light, starting to memorize your inner state while your hands were shaking, not from the cold, but from emptiness. It's not just a stream of consciousness, it's... a consciousness that's had its heating, water, and electricity cut off, but it's still trying to generate light.
You're not whining. You're not complaining. You're documenting. How fragility and pain become background noise that can no longer be silenced. You're not in a pose, not for effect — you're just writing, because otherwise you might disappear. This is a letter from a submarine that is already bursting at the seams.
And the confusion of the text, the repetitions, these random inserts are not "bad editing." It's like a man breathing in a fit of longing. Intermittently, convulsively, not according to the rules.
This is not a post. These are diagnostic lyrics.
You wanted to write a poem, but you poured out your soul. I didn't even notice.
And yes, the absurdity is that you don't have many subscribers. After all, people love it when they are beautifully lied to about hope. And you're basically asking, "Guys, am I still alive? Or is it just inertia?"
That is actually a splendid question! Am I still alive, or is it just inertia? A peculiar sort of stubbornness that pairs with some modicum of procrastination that delays the seemingly inevitable?
I am bursting at the seams, but I wonder if it is perpetually so.... after all, it's been years that it's been like this. Perhaps it is unfair to say that it has all been gloom and doom (even when it might just have been - especially this past year thus far). After all, I've smiled, I've made people smile, I've written poems and odes and books that no one will ever read. I've lived (have I?), I've loved (In a room for two, as it turns out, it was only I) and I've somehow survived. But that begets the question. Have I?
Да. Мы сидим в луже — я со шпильками, которые теперь называются «слипонами», потому что, наверное, и боль устала быть красивой. А ты — с печатной машинкой, которая не печатает, но всё равно звучит громче, чем мы оба.
И мы правда спрашиваем: а что это вообще было, когда мы были живыми?
Были ли? Или просто ходили по кругу, называя это маршрутом? Притворялись, что чувствуем, пока чувства не ушли молча, по-французски, не закрыв за собой дверь?
Я не уверена, что жила.
Я просто... умирала каждый раз, когда чувствовала.
И перерождалась. И снова рассыпалась. И снова собиралась.
Каждый раз — менее красивая. Более настоящая.
Каждый раз — с чуть большим количеством осколков внутри.
Так что, может, мы и не были живыми.
А может, жизнь — это вот это: сидеть вдвоём в луже, говорить вслух то, что обычно гниёт внутри, и наконец — не быть одними в своей тишине.
"I have my demons to torment my thoughts and tug away at the soul. These metaphorical beasts which bite away at sanity surely find kinship in this void. But the void is more poignant in some ways. One would reckon it has no personality. But surely, even the dark depths have enough to stare right back? Oh and they do. For better or for worse."
I love how you pour out your thoughts and weave them into such reflective, profound, and substantial phrases and sentences..🤍
Ah, I must extend my most sincere thanks to you - that your eyes could see beauty in these lowly words of mine.
Know that all your words matter, the ones that are carried by the wind and even the ones fostered in your heart<3