I've been told that I should write about my thoughts. My thoughts are the tangled mass of wires behind the TV. Unplug the wrong one and now you have to wait for the router to reboot. It takes a modicum of clarity to sort through that mess to find exactly what you are looking for. A clarity that I do not currently have.
I've been told that I should write about my pain. My pain is a gaping gunshot wound, constantly bleeding. Writing about it is pouring lemon juice directly into it, searing and burning every bit of raw nerve it touches. It only ever stops for a moment. I move slightly and reopen the stitches, and I am back to hemorrhaging on the floor, blood pooling under me.
I've been told that I should write about my sadness. My sadness is a parasite, always invading my body. It eats away at the small moments of happiness and joy. Sometimes, it opens me up to it's viral friends, self loathing and mania. Even if I rid myself of them momentarily, it always comes back, ready to infect me all over again.
I have been told that I should just write. Doesn't matter if what I write makes sense... just write it out...
I guess this is me trying...
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