(no subject)
Sometimes I get this feeling like I'm about to give birth to something new and beautiful... like wonderful, unimaginable new things are about to burst from a hidden womb inside of me. The feeling builds and builds until it's an unbearable pressure inside my chest, and I desperatly search for some paper. I snatch a chewed up pen, take a deep breath and ... my hand won't budge. I can't even begin to describe, nor create what is trying to escape into the world. My mortal efforts to capture this heavenly glory are no more than chicken scratch. The pressure becomes intense pain, and I feel angry and frustrated and confused and guilty.
I end up sitting and glaring at the canvas before me.
I've had a miscarriage.
I would cry if I could. If only the walls weren't so informidable... if only the world outside weren't so terrifying.
Words from an anti-war novel by Kurt Vonnegut keep running through my head. "Sometimes I think how useless the Dresden part of my memory has become, and yet how tempting it is to write about. But no words come to mind. There's nothing intelligent to say about a massacre."
This is my chicken scratch tonight.
Though I long for sleep, the pain has me pacing; hopelessly trying to express the unexpressable.
I must have lost my mind. Or maybe this is what being "artistic" is about. If so then I'm guilty of abominable things. I've failed to give birth to countless breathtaking children. Am I destined to stay barren?
This pain is driving me mad.
It's times like these that I begin to understand why I self-medicate so often.
Even now, I just finished taking a few sinus pills I didn't need... but they cause drowsiness which may help me sleep.
I just don't know any more. Right, wrong, sane, insane... where are the lines?
~Raiven~
I end up sitting and glaring at the canvas before me.
I've had a miscarriage.
I would cry if I could. If only the walls weren't so informidable... if only the world outside weren't so terrifying.
Words from an anti-war novel by Kurt Vonnegut keep running through my head. "Sometimes I think how useless the Dresden part of my memory has become, and yet how tempting it is to write about. But no words come to mind. There's nothing intelligent to say about a massacre."
This is my chicken scratch tonight.
Though I long for sleep, the pain has me pacing; hopelessly trying to express the unexpressable.
I must have lost my mind. Or maybe this is what being "artistic" is about. If so then I'm guilty of abominable things. I've failed to give birth to countless breathtaking children. Am I destined to stay barren?
This pain is driving me mad.
It's times like these that I begin to understand why I self-medicate so often.
Even now, I just finished taking a few sinus pills I didn't need... but they cause drowsiness which may help me sleep.
I just don't know any more. Right, wrong, sane, insane... where are the lines?
~Raiven~