I’m Starving for Meaning — And Only Words Can Feed Me

I don’t know how to explain this kind of hunger.

It’s not like the usual kind — not something you feel in your stomach. It’s deeper than that. Somewhere behind the eyes, maybe in the chest. Or in the quiet. I don’t know. I just know I’ve felt it for as long as I can remember.

It’s not about food. I’ve always had food.

It’s something else entirely.

A need — no, more like a craving — to understand. To feel something. To be filled with meaning.

Some people want success. Some want love. Some want peace.

Me?

I want words. Real ones. Raw ones. Ones that cut deep or wrap around your ribs like a warm blanket. I want the kind of words that stay with you long after you’ve closed the book or turned off the screen.

That’s the kind of hunger I carry.



When I was a kid, I used to stare at words for no reason.

I didn’t read them like normal people did — not just to understand the sentence. I’d break them down. Taste them. Turn them around in my head.

Why does "silent" live inside "listen"?

Why does "lie" hide in "believe"?

Why does "heart" rearrange into "earth"?

I wasn’t trying to be smart. I wasn’t even trying to be poetic. I just… felt like there was something there. Something I was supposed to notice. Something others weren’t seeing.

And it made me feel weird. Still kind of does.

But it’s always been like that for me.



Science says hunger is caused by ghrelin. And when you’re full, leptin kicks in.

Cool. Makes sense.

But what’s the science behind craving a sentence so bad it hurts? Or reading a poem at 2 a.m. and suddenly feeling like you're not alone in the world?

What chemical lights up when someone says just the right words — and it feels like they reached into your chest and held your heartbeat?

No one talks about that kind of hunger. But it’s real.



Sometimes, people ask me why I write so much. Or why I underline random things in books. Or why I screenshot quotes like they’re food I’ll need later.

I don’t really have a good answer.

Most people don’t get it. That’s okay.

But for me, it’s not a hobby. It’s not cute. It’s not even a passion.

It’s survival.

Because when I go too long without meaning, I get hollow.

Not sad — hollow.

Like I’m floating just a little too high above my own life, disconnected from the floor.

And only certain kinds of words bring me back.

Not tweets. Not headlines. Not basic, forgettable things.

The kind of words that feel like truth.



I don’t care if it’s from a stranger’s blog, an old book, or a line from some unknown poem.

If it hits me, it hits me.

And for a moment, I feel full.

Not full like food.

Full like... real.

Like someone else has lived inside my skin and left a message just for me, hidden between the lines.

Then, of course, the feeling fades. And the hunger comes back.

And I go searching again.



I’ve accepted that this is how I live.

Always a little bit hungry.

But maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s what keeps me looking. Reading. Writing. Digging. Asking questions no one else seems to ask out loud.

Maybe that’s what makes life beautiful — that we never fully arrive.

We’re always a little lost.

Always searching.

Always aching for something just out of reach — and sometimes, just sometimes, we find it in a sentence.

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So if you see me lost in a notebook or staring off mid-conversation like I’ve just remembered something important...

Don’t worry.

I’m just feeding something inside me that doesn’t eat food.

Something that only wakes up when words are just right.