inkwazsilver

I keep writing because... well, why?

With my soul so precariously bound between a void that I have brushed and fear and a life I am no longer willing to accept, why do I keep writing?

Because once, there was someone who used to check this profile on a regular basis- who read my words for the love of me and knew me for them. Whatever illusions exist on solid ground now, they are only illusions, because I am here, clean of the ghosts of shouts and pain.

Whatever ground that the person stands on now, whichever side of the void, if they touch this part of me again, I can't help but  feel like I will somehow know that they have done so and breathe again.

So keep writing, me. And keep writing, you. Whoever you are, wherever you are, let words remind you that your voice is powerful in love and hate, in joy and loss. And maybe, maybe someone will hear and find you beautiful. What else can we ask for?

Hope, my friends.

Hope, to any who read this.

Hope is everything.

I seem bent on my own destruction.

My loves are vicious. Rather, my love, which is singular and a bitter drink when sipped alone.
My writing is empty. It is full of almosts and slightlys and halfway theres.
My life is a whirlwind. I fill it with tasks and phantom duties so that I can avoid the things I am too weak to try for.
I am a fool. In nearly every facet of life, I surrender to my own weaknesses instead of taking life as it should be.
And I'm cold and won't close the window. Masochism? Yeah, maybe.

It's time for some upheaval. Some self-revolution. My cells need to revolt and save my spirit from it's own deep and consuming sorrows. I need to stop disappointing myself and realize that I demand too much of this singular and mortal body.

I feel so lost.

This morning I had to wake up at 3:00 to finish my homework as I was exhausted out of my everlovin' mind by around 9:30 last night (insane.). I grumbled all the way downstairs, finished my paper in an hour and suddenly had two hours to kill. Meh. What do you do with two hours on a Wednesday morning in the almost-middle of February? You go outside of course. So that is what I did.

I very slowly got dressed, made a playlist, breathed, found a thick blanket, made some special hot chocolate, found a good pen, dug out that ridiculously thick coat that I refused to wear all through junior high because it went to my knees, and went outside.

And while I was out there, sitting on my front porch, distracted by the dim and inconsistent light of a single street light, I realized that I wasn't waiting for a sunrise, but a something. I want something to come and get me. Pick me up. Wake me up. I want to walk in some light for once. Perhaps this is the winter getting to me, that halfway-there mental state of cabin fever.

And I realized as I was writing by the light of my ipod backlight, secured firmly between my chin and coat collar, that I really couldn't wait anymore. Eventually I was going to have to get up, go back inside and finish getting ready for the day.So as I stepped back inside of the warm house and flipped a switch, inundating the familiar hallway with light I found myself thinking that sometimes you have to create your own sunrise, flip a switch and take control of that aspect of your existence. Because you can't always wait for nature to take its course and do it for you.

I have very little recollection of writing my latest poem Playground of the Dead. I woke up this morning and went to write something in the faithful blue notebook and opened to a page entitled Playground of the Dead: 12:36 AM. This isn't particularly odd except for the looming fact that ... I was well asleep by 12:36 AM.

I don't recall writing the poem, but it is definitely in my handwriting. Very dark. Very eerie. I think I must have been frightened by the fierce winds yesterday evening. It's no piece of great news that I am very susceptible to atmosphere and easily put in fear of the dark. But. I must have been subconsciously in terror of whatever was outside. The wind continues today, but in the gray daylight, I am more inspired than afraid.