attempt at writing for the first time in like 4 years????

Honestly, I used to write pretty frequently in middle school but I stopped because I was like "this is so cringe </3." But now I'm kind of over that way of thinking and I really like writing, or I did I guess. I don't really do anything else so maybe this could become a hobby for me perchance??

Anyways, I had an idea like 3 days ago and I was like "I literally have to write about this immediately." but I kind of hate typing, I prefer to write stuff by hand. Not for any douchey reason it just feels better that way. but yeah here's this story about this guy who has to come to terms with the fact that he feels stuff. 

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There's a period of time during the day, from noon to probably around 4:30, that exudes a sense of emptiness, the void, he calls it. It’s nearing the end of this period while he sits on his couch, alone. It’s 3:47, and he’s been sitting around all day, sort of meandering, not really committing to this activity or that. He’s coming to grips with a particularly horrifying realization at the moment. He tries to think of it as self reflection, but deep down he sees it for the pity party it really is. He and rumination were close companions, despite the fact that it had never served him beyond justifying the behavior of other people. Explanations were important to him, constantly stuck on the reasons people do things, not so much the things they do. He knows it’s because if he didn’t justify everyone’s behavior in his head, he may have to accept that some people are cruel. He knows this. He can’t stop doing it. 

The problem with this level of pondering on the pathology of other people, is that it leaves very little room for genuine self reflection. Perhaps this is by design. However, there is a threshold for things that can be ignored. The point after this threshold is when these things begin to fester, clawing and biting with a vengeance. So when these things begin to claw, he does what he does best, he ruminates. He turns his feelings over in his head, trying to see why, how, when. Clinical. It’s detached in a way, he recognizes dimly that it’s because it’s safer this way, the stakes are lower when it’s all business. 

Jealousy was always something he rolled his eyes at. It was so immature, how could people stand to behave that way, he would always think. But now, with the ugly burning in his gut, he has to concede, it feels like he wants to throw a tantrum. It feels indecent in its potency. Even now, in the safety of his home, entirely alone, he feels the humiliation, hot on his neck. He feels humiliated before an audience that isn’t there, that was never there and never would be, not if he had a say in the matter. 

The feeling is ugly, it inspires an aching and itching feeling. Restless in his mind’s frantic attempts to stop it. It feels like his mind’s leg is caught in a bear trap, and trying desperately to chew it off. He pauses. The shame creeps back up, slithering up his spine and settling behind his cheeks. This jealousy seems to have also inspired a flair for the dramatics. 

So now he sits, stewing in his jealousy and the shame it brings with it. There’s nothing to be done, and moreover, nothing he wants to be done. It simply…is. And there isn’t anything he hates more in this moment, on his couch, alone. 

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The ending feels a little rushed honestly but it was super stream of consciousness so I wasn’t expecting it to be super clean. It was fun to write about though, and I might write more about this guy in the future. The guy doesn’t really have a name or a face, he's just a guy. Maybe I’ll develop him into an actual character.