Writing
So yesterday, I was in the kitchen doing dishes and words just started flowing in my brain. I went to the computer and started writing and this is what came out. It was over as fast as it started. Its definitely an example of how I purge through writing.
Nothing
There was nothing left. As if the world he had known were suddenly sucked into a black hole, leaving him alone and naked in a space devoid of any features. The disappearance of all that was familiar did not necessarily equate into tragedy so much as an upheaval. Where do you begin when there is nothing left? How do you reconstruct a life when all that was once is no more?
Curled in a ball under foreign blankets, in a room that was not his own, he spent a week or more. Time stretched and constricted until there was little but his agony to measure the passing of days. In turn, he yearned for the familiar then begged the universe not to regurgitate that hell upon him. In the haze of withdrawal, both from chemicals and abuse, he cried, cussed, hated those whose tender hands came to his aid. No gracious thank-yous passed cracked, chapped lips. With no experience of kindness, how could he accept without suspicion? How could self hate not equate with a rejection of those who wished to love him?
'Hate me for I hate myself', his actions beseeched.
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Nothing
There was nothing left. As if the world he had known were suddenly sucked into a black hole, leaving him alone and naked in a space devoid of any features. The disappearance of all that was familiar did not necessarily equate into tragedy so much as an upheaval. Where do you begin when there is nothing left? How do you reconstruct a life when all that was once is no more?
Curled in a ball under foreign blankets, in a room that was not his own, he spent a week or more. Time stretched and constricted until there was little but his agony to measure the passing of days. In turn, he yearned for the familiar then begged the universe not to regurgitate that hell upon him. In the haze of withdrawal, both from chemicals and abuse, he cried, cussed, hated those whose tender hands came to his aid. No gracious thank-yous passed cracked, chapped lips. With no experience of kindness, how could he accept without suspicion? How could self hate not equate with a rejection of those who wished to love him?
'Hate me for I hate myself', his actions beseeched.
------