Shrivelled. Shut off. Solitary. Disconnected. Unable to shove myself past the enormous, yet compressed, melancholic inertia. Unable to wield. Able only to reproach myself for perceived failure. Failure to grasp the pen or pencil on this particular day and make some writing on the lines of the page. I've resisted my body's urgent desire to embody itself within the creations that ink can manifest onto the pages of my strikingly handsome writing journals.
Fuck off, fear.
It's as though, the act of taking pen in hand to make a mark on the page renders an inescapable permanency. It's ugly and uncomfortable - tasting what's raw and visceral, as it flows from my fingers and onto the page. I find that taste intense and unpalatable.
How do I temper this loathesome taste?
By tasting it ~ over, and over, and over again.
By committing to myself.
By connecting to the story.
Can balance really feel so dead and hollow?
1 comments:
"personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict." ~ jim morrison.....we are our own worst enemies....how can one defeat oneself?.... the battle is tiring......and endless......
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