A paradox exists in the chasm that lies between habits and addiction . The rickety bridge that crosses the cavernous gap, is called indulgence. Each step, each morsel, each act done with the intent of doing it just a little bit more, leads you closer and closer to the pit of addiction and the slow spiral of consumption of the soul and it’s psyche. If I had to chose my choice of poison ,it would be writing , my muse being my pain. A broken heart bears beautiful writing , but a broken soul bleeds heart wrenching poetry. Masochist I am with an appetite for heart break. The tearing of heart strings ,bring an ironic sense of happiness and euphoria when I put my pen to paper and stain beautiful pieces of poetry with droplets of tears and blood. I punctuate my sentences with full stops carved after the finalities of rage. Each curve of my haphazard cursive makes me feel alive. As more tragedy bubbles beneath my surface , the more the writer in me reaches metaphoric climaxes.
I am addicted to my pain, I am committed to my loss, I am a slave to my rage.
The more the wound is poked and prodded and ripped apart from it’s stitches , the more transcendent the words become.It is during moments when I sit hunched over my desk, heart quivering , pen shaking , paper tearing , that I truly understand what it means to write. I am in love with the power of words that lie beneath my sorrows. Each time more intoxicating that the last, how far can I go before all my heart strings no longer play the sweet symphony of sorrow and misery to produce a glorious cacophony of what it means to be a writer.
It is absolutely tragic that sunflowers and sunshine and happiness can never produce the same euphoric feeling of purging and release through creative expression. Who am I to deny my heart it’s want to open forbidden doors, and step on glass , to be curious about my own thresholds. Who am I to deny the writer in me the pain it craves like the caffeine that you do. My pain plays Stockholm syndrome to my writing and I am enslaved to my nightmares.
As I force my mind down the rabbit hole, I find myself tightening the noose around my neck and plunging head first into fleeting thoughts of sadness and agony. I am nothing if not for a manifestation of ironic compilations of euphoria and tragedy. As I cut my own wings, through catastrophic self manifestations of masochism , I fall onto the soft cushion of writing, that is woven from the web of misfortune and destruction.
And like all addictions, there exists a point of no return.
Maybe one day I’ll take it a tad too far, drive the knife in too hard, play my heart strings violently to produce a cacophony of pandemonium tainted thoughts .instead of stroking them to produce melody of happiness and peace. Maybe on this day, I’ll believe that the sacrifice of self is worth it , if it means achieving that final sense of unbelievable euphoria, by writing the perfect , most harmonious lines of poetry and prose.
I will spend the remainder of a black and white world, chasing after splashes of colour that lie in gashes of red.
To write, is to bleed. And bleed I will.