Why do I write? A cyclical addiction that I cannot deny, I am lured by the mixing of reality with hope. I binge on the emotion, wallowing in its depth. The endorphins give me the texture, enable the distorted visions, and find the purpose in tragedy. Touching the places in the soul that are held private; protected.
The motion is not graceful and feels sudden when I urgently purge all of these senses onto the canvas. Notebook after notebook of scratches, words barely legible in the intoxication of the moment. Moving the pen to the muse – allowing her to torment me, taunt me, into motion. Purging what I have not only felt, but also seen, heard, touched, tasted, believed and was betrayed.
The cycle continues with the shame. The guilt of vanity – did I really think I could do this? The fear. Failure to touch a single soul. Failure to convey what was mine and is now yours. The crash. The hangover. The editor. Swooping in to fill my head with the pounding of doubt. The sun that filled my spirit with joyous motion has turned to burn the scars and remnants of urban, modern, social, responsible realities.
Yet, the gnawing in my gut stirs again. Am I hungry? I sneak away for a taste in solitude. I am as a child in the corner, anxious and watching the world’s motion speeding by. I begin to fill up on the moment, the passion, the fear. I succumb to swim in the poetry and let the words dance about my spirit. I greedily digest every emotion without inhibition knowing I will have to throw it all up to the universe. Pay the toll. And hope to become hungry again.