Writing. Writing about writing. I feel belittled by myself. Deprecated. I’m finding it too arduous to summon the words I once would with so much ease. Powerful language flowing out from within me. Words that bled from me. Words I bled into. Red-brown smears across the paper.
I lost the words, somewhere once upon a time. Alongside prams and potty training, ABC songs hurt, and Old McDonald wouldn’t have helped me. A most magical moment in time, by anybody’s standards, left me bereft of my release. Desperate, paramount release. Betrayed by life, by life and biology. Words, stolen from me on that magic night.
I don’t need anyone to read what I’ve written. But I NEED to be able to write. Imperative to my soul, I beg for the words to return to me. For as long as I can remember, words healed me, writing them stroked my heart. And now they have gone.
Haunted by formidable dreams, a sign of creativity seeping up through any cracks in my spirit. There are so many many cracks. Biomorphic shapes of shadow creatures creep up from within them, taunting me, prickling my spine. They smile, disgusting smiles.
Maybe my heart isn’t broken enough anymore? The bleeding, my blood the ink, has dried. Is broken love the only inspiration I can use? Has broken love dried my emotional river? Desperate, grieving, tears come easily over the haughty remains, spiteful remains that dance and jeer where words once were. Ridiculing my failure.