The Abyss Isn’t Empty I had a realization today that shook me. When I’m alone, there’s this feeling—not just loneliness, something deeper. Like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff inside myself. And if I don’t reach for something—validation, distraction, another person—I might fall. Lose control. Lose my mind. I used to think that meant something was wrong with me. But I’m starting to see it differently. I think what I’m feeling is the absence of something that was supposed to form early on—an internal sense of being seen, grounded, held. When that’s missing, of course you reach outward. That’s not weakness. That’s adaptation. But here’s the shift: What if the abyss isn’t just a void? What if it’s the space where something real is trying to form? Not the version of me that performs or earns connection—but something raw. Something that exists even when no one is watching. Yeah, it’s terrifying. Without constantly orienting around others, it can feel like there’s nothing there at all. But I don’t think that’s true anymore. I think that edge is the boundary between who I had to be and who I actually am. And maybe “falling” isn’t destruction. Maybe it’s becoming. 🟣 The Purple Phoenix Collective