There’s so much I have to say, but it’s trapped inside me. There are words crawling on the walls of my throat screaming to be let out, but I've forgotten how. I believe it is irony that to a writer, there is nothing more precious than words, but at the same time, there is nothing as deceiving as words either
Is this what chaos feels like?
Sometimes I wonder if this is how it is supposed to be, everything that I hide in the corners of my existence is destined to break me down.
Everything that I could never talk about.
Nudged by these angry, anxious, and somewhat frightening thoughts I try to write about what bothers me, rid myself of this melancholic unease. But to my dismay, all that flows from the ink of my pen is poetry…
None of this was as poetic and beautiful as it seems.
It was brutal, painful, tragic and at times, saddening in a way that the death of Romeo was, but God, never poetic.
Right now, is one of the countless times when I am unable to unfold the creases within myself, left aching with the inability to express. And so, I will do what every writer does, I will not write about my thoughts, about everything that keeps me up at night.
I will instead write about everything except what may kill me in cold blood.
I often wonder if this is a curse (and yet a gift) writers and poets suffer from, to never be able to write in a fashion that is mundane, to never draw a line that is straight. They are destined to beautify the worst of tragedies, even as their skin bleeds and the soul aches. There is no way around this. After all, healing was never supposed to come this easy, but this isn’t healing, it is pushing oneself further into the hollows of darkness only to slowly slip into an inescapable abyss and laugh at the mere idea of healing.
Is healing even half as worth it? Is it as painfully beautiful as destroying oneself? Does it have the same forbidden charm that constantly warns you but steadily pulls you towards itself?
Perhaps this is what insanity is, to find the idea of ruining oneself more appealing than that of being sound in one’s right mind. It is identical to sipping coffee on a cold winter day, you don’t quite realize it but you’re falling silently in love.
And if you’re lucky, there’s no turning back.