(no subject)
Some people go to therapy. Some try to drown the voices in their head in drink. Stifle them with the sheets of a woman that smells a lot like that sunset on that summer evening many moons ago. They lull the voices into submission with song and dance. Bribe them with designer labels. A lot like snake charmers, they coax the voices into the basket of forgetfulness and oblivious bliss.
I gently caress the keyboard of my netbook and fool myself into feeling the warmth of the plastic. I stroke the mouse and shiver at the counterfeit goose bumps against my fingertips. Alone, I’ve only got the voices in my head to keep me company. I give them free reign and let them tumble forth. I grew up an only child; to me talking has been a single-player kind of game anyway. And yes, in the privacy of this extremely exclusive secret society, I refer to myself in third person.
This communion with the voices in my head is like playing with the Ouija board: I am the medium and my fingers are guided upon the keyboard with whatever messages are communicated to me. They speak. I transcribe. I translate. I write.
To me writing is the joy of living proven by the ability to still feel pain. Still. After everything. It is an attempt to unburden my soul, to pick up the phone and dial the number of someone long gone, to tell them all the things I am not supposed to. To laugh with them, to cry with them, to say “remember when”. My writing is a missing persons report, a way to spill my secrets into the universe hoping that they will find the person that they are intended for.
Writing is a way to have the last word after all, time and distance be damned. It is about getting your lines right even if you have missed your cue.
It is a customs declaration for the love baggage that has piled up over the years. The black box account of all the crushes and crashes that have encased my heart in scar tissue.
It is a conversation with the water under bridge, even if I know that I will drown trying to swim against the current of history.
It is a eulogy for the girl that grew up to be me, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, till death, heartbreak or multiple personality disorder do us part.
I gently caress the keyboard of my netbook and fool myself into feeling the warmth of the plastic. I stroke the mouse and shiver at the counterfeit goose bumps against my fingertips. Alone, I’ve only got the voices in my head to keep me company. I give them free reign and let them tumble forth. I grew up an only child; to me talking has been a single-player kind of game anyway. And yes, in the privacy of this extremely exclusive secret society, I refer to myself in third person.
This communion with the voices in my head is like playing with the Ouija board: I am the medium and my fingers are guided upon the keyboard with whatever messages are communicated to me. They speak. I transcribe. I translate. I write.
To me writing is the joy of living proven by the ability to still feel pain. Still. After everything. It is an attempt to unburden my soul, to pick up the phone and dial the number of someone long gone, to tell them all the things I am not supposed to. To laugh with them, to cry with them, to say “remember when”. My writing is a missing persons report, a way to spill my secrets into the universe hoping that they will find the person that they are intended for.
Writing is a way to have the last word after all, time and distance be damned. It is about getting your lines right even if you have missed your cue.
It is a customs declaration for the love baggage that has piled up over the years. The black box account of all the crushes and crashes that have encased my heart in scar tissue.
It is a conversation with the water under bridge, even if I know that I will drown trying to swim against the current of history.
It is a eulogy for the girl that grew up to be me, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, till death, heartbreak or multiple personality disorder do us part.