I really don't know how to express the amount of angst I've had over not writing for nearly three years. But I just have to keep writing. It's like part of my soul has been slowly sucked out of me. It feels like it was taken from me.
But I probably took it from myself.
I've gone through a lot of transitions. And lately. I can only make people laugh in emotionally ignorant self reflections. It's highly unfortunate. Because at my best. I'm a synesthesiac. I'm not some washed up piece of shit ego maniac. I feel words. I feel them pummel into my body like gravity as a dance partner. I feel them like a lover I longed for and a life I fought for. But I do no fight them, I do not bid them fair well. they are in me. Forever.
I do not think people know this when they say words to me. Perhaps that's why I was so determined to abandon them on of my few refuges in to the roots of the trees I grow flowers on and shit glitter out of, desperately trying to inhail pixie dust as if I weren't human. Or whatever.
It just pisses me off though really.
I was a talented fuck. And you know what happened. no. you don't. And that's for the best. Let's leave it like that.
I guess.... god. I'll just have to fill you in a bit though won't I. There's a lot of space in here and not all of it's terrible. It's a terrifying thing to face yourself. I don't think that most people ever do. I have being alone with pages. I love being alone with pages. I get naked all the time. But here I'm like.... really fucking naked. That's how you know you're ok. When a blank page is exciting. But what do you do when it's just looked like a hospital room and been a symbol of death for so long you'll only ever face it in moments of cancerous thought? I guess you just have to get better.
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