I am going to cry. Tears of exhaustion, frustration, relief, joy. Why do I do this except what else could I do with myself. It is painful. I want it to be pleasure but it hurts. The more important it is, the worse it feels.

I don’t want it to be like this but this is how it is. At this moment. Maybe it”s not forever. Maybe it is. Maybe that matters. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe that’s what sacrifice is. Another little piece cut from my flesh. To put something into words, to translate life into symbols—maybe this is what Hemingway meant about bleeding on the page. Maybe this hurts cause I write about pain, horror, tragedy, loss, redemption, triumph, life, death, rebirth. Maybe the process reflects the reality in ways I cannot articulate.

Maybe sublimation is a gift and a curse.

I don’t know. I may never know. I may not even want to find out. Maybe I need to learn how to be with the great pain and discomfort as much as I am with the beauty and joy. Oww. Just saying that, I felt my heart tighten in protest. But I can’t know anything other than what I feel. Not what I think or believe; those are just words and words are not real.

Do you feel me? Words are not real. And they are all I have. Me and my bag of magic beans. Ha Ha. Yea.

Fuck. That’s it. I operate in myth, in mist. Words are veils. They reveal and they hide, they expose and they lie at the same exact fucking time. They can’t ever not. They can’t ever be the thing itself. They will always and can only be a trick of the mind.

Words are the matrix. And we live for them as nothing else. Without language we are reduced to a being raised by wolves.

I’m not saying either is better or worse, only without words, we could be lost. And with them, we are lost and found and found and lost and the spiral never stops spinning in on itself. Maybe this is why it hurts. I’m running from and I am running to and I am trying desperately to keep still.

I love it and hate it and it is killing me. And I am wayyy too dramatic for my own good. But if I didn’t feel what I feel, I wouldn’t need to write it down. I need to write. I need to tell. Not to be right. But to be free from myself.

These stories must be told. I’m screaming like Janis, “Take IT!” and there’s not much left. But maybe it grows back or it opens in bloom like the petals of a rose from which the blood lets.


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