I found some old writing of mine
well, not super old, but old enough that I hardly remembered the contents until I was going through my personal folder and opened them up on a whim. some of the sentiments are still remarkably familiar, given that they were written in what I consider to be a completely and entirely different period in my life. I really should start writing like this again. thought it'd be interesting to post some of it here in case any of you feel like giving feedback.
Tornadoes
Tornadoes settled over me in the early morning, tornadoes so cheap they could hardly be called such, but tornadoes all the same. Arms and flesh twisted into a myriad of fantastic natural shapes. And as the grey peace settled over me, and my eyes opened and my limbs were still, I felt utterly, catastrophically, alone.
Do you ever get that feeling, when you meet up with an old lover or stranger that you happened to sleep with or crush or a little bit more than a friend? The bland obviousness of undeserved jealousy, presenting itself to you. It is the type of indulgence that you have no desire to pursue, but it still remains there, like the dull itch of a weeks old insect bite, no longer worth the effort of scratching but still, utterly, present.
I never feel more crazy than when I sit, in the nice comfortable bed, in my nice comfortable home, late at night with the lights on.
I never feel closer to death than when I feel so much yet think so little, am so devoid of passion that my emotion lacks the fuel to leave my body and it simmers inside, disgusting and worthless.
I never feel more surreal than when I bow on filthy knees to the porcelain God.
I never feel more exhausted than when I get the first few sentences out and then there’s nothing fucking left.
Never before have I wanted so badly to cry, yet resented myself so deeply for it, than when I scraped the words off of the barren sides of the caverns of my brain and was too ashamed of them to even look at the screen, too cold to even feel the keys beneath me, to tired and lonely to understand what was happening to me.
Creation
I have come to the conclusion that I am afraid to create.
I don’t know why. But even as I write this now I feel my throat gripping in on itself, the air trickling timorously into my lungs, my eyes doggedly avoiding the blank gaze of my computer screen.
And then the initial thrill of fear wears off, and the frantic warmth in my chest cavity is replaced by a creeping emptiness, spreading in pinpricks over my arms and smooth as peanut butter under my skin. And then it sinks in, it’s an exhaustion, an overloaded circuit, running too fast until it burns itself out hours, days, months before all the others.
The words are all wrong. They’re always all wrong. They shake as sobs through my fingertips, coming out just as sloppily as tears, fat red-faced tears and snot pouring down. The thought of anyone ever seeing them leaves me horror-struck. Poisoned. Paralyzed.
And then, like a whisper, it’s gone. The awful similes wither into dust. The emptiness numbs me all over, leaving a vague gentle stirring feeling behind. A useless gentle stirring feeling. I’m useless. Without being able to create, I’m absolutely useless. What else are we here for?
I have come to the conclusion that I am not just afraid to create, I am terrified of it. And its killing me a little inside, every day, every time the whim passes over me and I spark into flame for just a moment and then go out, snuffed by the slightest breeze, painfully aware of my helplessness.
But no, not even helplessness, because that would make it okay. If I was simply unable, incapable, it wouldn’t be such a waste. It is hopelessness. Unwillingness.
Tornadoes
Tornadoes settled over me in the early morning, tornadoes so cheap they could hardly be called such, but tornadoes all the same. Arms and flesh twisted into a myriad of fantastic natural shapes. And as the grey peace settled over me, and my eyes opened and my limbs were still, I felt utterly, catastrophically, alone.
Do you ever get that feeling, when you meet up with an old lover or stranger that you happened to sleep with or crush or a little bit more than a friend? The bland obviousness of undeserved jealousy, presenting itself to you. It is the type of indulgence that you have no desire to pursue, but it still remains there, like the dull itch of a weeks old insect bite, no longer worth the effort of scratching but still, utterly, present.
I never feel more crazy than when I sit, in the nice comfortable bed, in my nice comfortable home, late at night with the lights on.
I never feel closer to death than when I feel so much yet think so little, am so devoid of passion that my emotion lacks the fuel to leave my body and it simmers inside, disgusting and worthless.
I never feel more surreal than when I bow on filthy knees to the porcelain God.
I never feel more exhausted than when I get the first few sentences out and then there’s nothing fucking left.
Never before have I wanted so badly to cry, yet resented myself so deeply for it, than when I scraped the words off of the barren sides of the caverns of my brain and was too ashamed of them to even look at the screen, too cold to even feel the keys beneath me, to tired and lonely to understand what was happening to me.
Creation
I have come to the conclusion that I am afraid to create.
I don’t know why. But even as I write this now I feel my throat gripping in on itself, the air trickling timorously into my lungs, my eyes doggedly avoiding the blank gaze of my computer screen.
And then the initial thrill of fear wears off, and the frantic warmth in my chest cavity is replaced by a creeping emptiness, spreading in pinpricks over my arms and smooth as peanut butter under my skin. And then it sinks in, it’s an exhaustion, an overloaded circuit, running too fast until it burns itself out hours, days, months before all the others.
The words are all wrong. They’re always all wrong. They shake as sobs through my fingertips, coming out just as sloppily as tears, fat red-faced tears and snot pouring down. The thought of anyone ever seeing them leaves me horror-struck. Poisoned. Paralyzed.
And then, like a whisper, it’s gone. The awful similes wither into dust. The emptiness numbs me all over, leaving a vague gentle stirring feeling behind. A useless gentle stirring feeling. I’m useless. Without being able to create, I’m absolutely useless. What else are we here for?
I have come to the conclusion that I am not just afraid to create, I am terrified of it. And its killing me a little inside, every day, every time the whim passes over me and I spark into flame for just a moment and then go out, snuffed by the slightest breeze, painfully aware of my helplessness.
But no, not even helplessness, because that would make it okay. If I was simply unable, incapable, it wouldn’t be such a waste. It is hopelessness. Unwillingness.