Blood Is On the Dancefloor
If only I could channel everything into this.
If only I could somehow fill the proverbial empty page, using everything I feel.
If only I could just sit down and turn even the ugliest things into something readable or watchable, or better yet, something beautiful.
I envy those who could. They can put themselves out there, masterfully disguising their pain, their desires, or their desperation in other people’s clothes, sometimes in a completely different time, and in places far from their own.
It must be liberating to have that luxury to wallow, to simmer, and to feel, but then eventually release it all - out into the world where you can stand back and watch. Nothing was in vain. Cathartic justice.
If I had that ability, each bad moment, or day, or week, would appear to have a purpose. They happened, or were allowed to happen, for the sake of art - or in my case, work.
It’s difficult when I’m being paid to always feel, to always pay attention to everything beneath the surface, and to dig down to the deep recesses of my soul. It’s difficult because once I tap into it - what the hell do I do with it? I can’t seem to put it into anything that anyone would understand or want to understand. So instead, it stays there. Like an extra appendage, I drag it around wherever I go.
I’ve tried other outlets. Like exercise. Like talking to people. Like eating. Or not eating. Like crying. Like laughing. Like watching people who have it far worse. Or far better. But it’s still there, bogging down my every step and taunting me to get in front of the computer. I know the only solution is to write it. To see it on the page. To maybe watch it on the screen. But I can’t. I don’t know how.
If only I had a chain saw, I’d just have my way with it. But then I’d just bleed all over the floor. And no one would like that.