The Void I Always Knew Would Come (stream of consciousness)

And there it is—the void I always knew would come. I’ve felt it waving from afar, biding its time, waiting for the right moment to wrap me in a tight hug overnight. And just as I feared, it happened. But let me start at the beginning.

I feel inept. Social media—it’s supposed to be easy, right? A tool for connection, visibility, growth. Yet for me, it’s more of a labyrinth. I know I need to be visible in order to be seen. That much sounds logical. But engaging—actively stepping into conversations, leaving my unimportant thoughts for strangers to see—it feels wrong, even intrusive. I can’t shake that feeling.

Yet I know the rules of the game. Comments and interactions generate interest. They build curiosity, lead people to my work, and if I’m lucky, make them linger. I know all of this. I have the right skills, the right words, the ability to reach people and touch their hearts. But as long as those words remain unread, they remain unseen.

Don’t get me wrong—I don’t write for others. I write for myself. Writing is my sanctuary, my storm, and my stillness. But I can’t deny the thrill when someone shares my poetry or buys my books. That validation, that moment of being seen—it fills a space I didn’t know was empty. It reminds me that my words can be part of something bigger, that they can leave a trace, however faint, in the hearts of others.

So I’m left here, in this void, questioning. How do I rationalize publishing my ninth book when I have only a handful of readers? How do I justify pouring pieces of myself into the world when the world might not notice? Is it enough to simply hold my book in my hands, to smell its pages and feel its weight? Do I need more reasons?

Maybe I do. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe the act of writing, the act of creating, is reason enough. The pride I feel when I see my words bound in a book—my book—is undeniable. It’s a selfish joy, yes, but a pure one. And yet, the longing to leave a mark, to know that my words matter to someone, remains.

The truth is, I want to leave a trace. I want my words to linger in the minds and hearts of those who read them. I want them to evoke something—anything. Writing isn’t about the numbers, but it’s also not entirely untouched by them. Visibility matters because stories need readers to breathe. But I don’t want to play a role or perform for clicks and likes. I want to show up as myself, flawed and honest, and let my words speak for themselves.

So here I am, staring into the void, grappling with these questions. I don’t have the answers yet. Maybe I never will. But for now, I write. I publish. I share. And I hope—quietly but fiercely—that somewhere, my words find their way to someone who needs them.

Do you ever feel this way about your own creative work? I’d love to hear your thoughts.