We are writers and we’re choking on the words, drowning in them, but yet we’re still looking everywhere for them. we dig into the emotions, label them with whatever our pens can spit out. Sometimes we create our emotions with our words. sometimes it’s how we bleed. when we don’t know how we feel, it’s dangerous because we write and we can convince ourselves that we feel a certain way and we let ourselves dwell in a feeling that was never meant to exist. Sometimes life is put on hold until all our blood has been poured out and we’re done screaming from the inside, but now it’s starting to really hurt. but sometimes when we’re dying, we realize how alive we really are. Its a cycle of explaining it and it never makes sense and you can never tell the difference between a thought and a feeling because they’re both in your body. you feel the emotion, but your thoughts conflict it and you can’t tell what’s real anymore, the feelings or the thoughts. Sometimes there are no words for months and you can’t even be sure if you’re real.
We are writers, look at our fingernails- with our bare hands, we dig into the things we cannot see. look in our mouths- we dig into the unknown with our teeth. We feel the emotions but we can only express the thoughts of the emotions. We are writers and we throw ourselves on a stage when we whisper. We write about the intangible, about the pieces of ourselves when we fall apart. We live in our mad heads and we’re falling apart every single time our minds say so.
We are writers and the world is an ocean and we jump right fucking in and we’re getting drunk off of our desperate need to feel alive, our passion to dream and create, and we’re vomiting how our failures sound through literature. We get reckless. We get sick of the words. We drink and there are new words and we find that the words never really go away, we just don’t always know how to bleed them out.
We are writers and we dig into the sights. the look on his face when he is smiling that smile and you ask why he’s smiling like that and he says, “because you’re still talking and I’m impatient and all I want to do is play with you. I’m smiling because of your rants. You need to let me shut off your brain and play.” We dig into these sights because sometimes, you see all of that in someone’s eyes.
We are writers and we dig into the feelings that are hard to explain. There are literally no words, but if the sentiment had to be explained, it would be like two people, at the same time, hearing Society by Eddie Vedder, not as music but as background sound, and you’re undoing his belt buckle and you’re both smiling. God, that is exactly what it’s like. We try to explain the nights that, now, thinking back, feel like the half of a dream you can remember, like a memory that will never die. We try to explain how the connection between two people can be so strong it’s like they’re holding hands, even through the distance.
We are writers and we’re staring at everyone, wondering what’s going on in their heads and when-how did our heads get like this? how do the words crawl all over like maggots, and how do the maggots know I’m dying- oh, they must smell this blood, I reek of it, so they must. it’s like being in the middle of London town and being asked to explain everything, empty the glass of water right down to its very last drop. and you know, you shake just thinking about it..