Bookmark #468

I have a habit of destroying myself in exchange for a handful of words and an ephemeral spark of inspiration. It is a terrible affliction, but it gets the job done. All this time, I have kneaded my heartache and loneliness into the plumpest dough of remarkable sentences. The dough, mixed with the padding of less noteworthy sentences, adds the required coherence and context. I have spent years suppressing screams and pushing them through my hands onto the screen or a piece of paper. But I do not scream anymore, and I do not writhe anymore. Lately, I have fought my tendency to pull my life apart like how we slice a freshly baked loaf of bread. I do not want to destroy this anymore, so I often wonder, what do I give up now? All my writing has been a trade, but I do not agree with the terms anymore.

If I have to kill myself, I will drown in my little joys instead. Sure, it is not natural, but what part of all this is natural? No human should have to write their mind away, but we do it regardless. I must remind myself, time and again, that this need for destruction has to be curbed, and this wanton desire for a momentary punch in my gut has to be reduced, if not cut out entirely. If there has to be a semblance of joy in my life, I must choose to look at the sun, but anyone who has looked at it too long will tell you that it, too, burns your eyes.

Perhaps, the answer is not in the constancy of pain or permanency of happiness but in flowing with it, letting the words flow as well. Perhaps, it is because of how people look at us. All writers are pushed to their extremes. The morose ones dig deeper into their dread. The happier ones go crazy with joy. That is all people think writers are good for: saving themselves the trouble of going too far.

We are proxies for what they wish they could do. They read our poems and prose about implosions within ourselves, the explosions of who we are, and they compare it to their pain floating at the surface, and some part of them is pleased they did not go that far. And what is worse, they look at us in a frenzy of joy and want us to shine brighter and brighter, not knowing the brightest stars are also the ones that burn the most.

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