To Write.

Writing isn’t about sitting “next to the typewriter to bleed”. It’s about remembering the typewriter when you bleed. It’s about holding your tears back so they choke your throat and sting your eyes. The lull before a storm, you could say. But it’s most devastating. The pressure against your chest builds up and here you are holding it in, breathing hard, typing so fast, wanting to channel every bit of that into something tangible; keep the pain alive. It’s ugly, you know? It’s pathetic, grammar-less, listed and upsetting to even re-read. But here it is. Your soul bared on paper.
The pressure drops. You suddenly realize the wet spots as you blink your lashes. Words aren’t as ugly and pure, but jarred, un-poetic, broken and gosh I’m rambling, ain’t I? You stop and stare. Your numb fingertips ache to dance across the keyboard again. This is a cry. Now is what never being an artist feels like. Reaching the brim of ecstatic epiphany, yet falling short. Plummeting into an abyss of pure melancholy to be instantly pulled out. Of recklessly driving against those yellow lights, only to reach a dead end. Because words aren’t there when you require them.
I must say, I feel an inexplicable pull towards the relieving sting in my eyes when I write; towards the endlessly frustrating moments attempting to coalesce both worlds. I write to survive insanity, as sanely as possible. Perhaps this process is as artistic as any. Perhaps this is what it means to write.
