liyoom̓aq (the devil)

My knees are on the tile. My back is arched. My body throbs. The convulsions stop my heart from beating. The strain on my insides keep the flow of water from my eyes turning. I can't help but pray for it all to be over, but I also know that each and every time you get that sick, your body couldn't be more relaxed afterwards. All of those muscle contractions, the uncontrollable sobbings, seems to shake everything from your soul. Remember that time you scoffed at the rom-com because some lady told a man that crying is good for them. Well it's true. My issue being that I'm not actually sick in the sense described, yet I am afflicted by the same whirlwind of horror. It is not until you stand alone do you really miss those who will forever lift you up.

Quaaludes... Oh why does the sultry seductress of inebriation avoid my reality. I have a smoke. Knowing that this smoke is probably closer to my last cigarette than my first. The rain on my face wakes me up a little. Shakes off a bit of that glaze I've grown just staring into the screens of bright lights and tired eyes. The clacking of my keyboard soothes the soul, and allows my body to drift back and forth between at work attentive me, and the at home motionless version. An acoustic guitar plucks, and dances its way into my ears which makes my shoulders droop. They've curled so much the past week I can admit they've almost touch one another from time to time. It helps snap me out of the circular downfall, having to force my back straight, and my chin off my chest.

I tie up my converse like army boots, my hands are pistol hammers. I walk like a tsunami through the streets without a care for the shoulders I crumbled in my anti-socialite faze. An unfortunate side-effect to the madness. Could I sleep without seeing the wrong answers? I spend most of my day contemplating the existence of another universe. Maybe there's a version of me, sitting in the exact same chair, and the same time. One who made all of the right decisions. Who said yes, where I said no, walked when I stayed, stood when I ran.

In the demonic temper that sets fire to my foundation, a crutch is splintered and I can't bare to think that both Tautou and I will end up in the same state. And I don't know how to help. I can't even help myself. I'm in the dark. It's pitch black. My legs are scarred, bleeding, and bruised from bumping into things.  Faces from my past, sharp objects left behind in spite, wounds that will never fully heal. These things will mark my face forever, making it horrendously obvious to anyone I greet that the battleground is not a place I'm strangers with. Win or lose... -- there really is no win -- war is evident. I feel like a terrible confidant, because I've got zero comprehension of what direction I'm headed. But I've got to try right? No matter how close to death I was, if I saw tautou being mauled by a bear, I would jump in there. There is no bear, I can't jump into any "situation", but there is an attack.. and I'm not going to let the sincerity within her be the only defence. I'm just as lost in this thought as I am in every other one I've had today.

It's thanksgiving... and while the ignorance wash of this painful imposter may feel there is a real lack of things to be thankful for, it simply isn't true. I'm still alive aren't I?

I hope he worships the ground you walk on .... because that's the least you deserve. Everyone. I can barely even write to tell the world how badly I need to write. How fucked up is that? I get roughly 5 minutes of constant word-spew for every 30 minutes that I hitch my hands to the top of my head, close my eyes, and keep the screams from bursting my eyeballs from their sockets. I feel weaker by the minute, like a slow burning sickness. My skin inches. My tongue burns. I lack sleep, and good positive waves of energy.

What's happening, the deceiving part, is that when one feels the grips of a glorious rung slip from their hands it is human nature to start clamoring for any hold. I've worn my fingers down two knuckled just trying to get myself off the floor. I know I'm not worthless, so this combat with gravity won't last forever. Some aren't as fortunate. Some can never rise from the linoleum, and never see the world from a true standing point of view. Then there are people that are intuitive, but quiet. The ones who give small amounts of people their absolute all, only to be beaten down by the reality that a lack of understanding means their effort is for not. And it's easier to stay and endure the sharp jabs, than to walk and feel the one knockout from the plank. In this devastating cycle, hearts are broken, souls are crushed. All because there is no way to show another person what is on the inside.

We write for the suffering. We write to bleed. Beyond therapy.

When the cut pours, a light shines through our wounds. We dribble. We drag our helpless hands across a page to magically reveal a soul much like invisible ink when touched by flame. We breathe in your words, and spit out our hearts. We just use more syllables. Bigger words. Longer thoughts. Harder emotions. So that one day the rats that chew through our flesh know our minds. We do it for the suffering. We die to write, in order to feel alive. Such a harder pill to swallow when you're being killed by the simple inability to conjure prose.

- wf.