Writing is a damn drug; sucks the life out of you. The you of out of you. Words trail your shadow, make up most of it, and you always look behind to make sure no one’s following, no one’s copying, no one’s better. But everyone seems better. Everyone seems great. You’re no one you’re nothing. A ghost of what you used to be; obssessing over things that don’t exist, ignoring the ones that do. Writing lies and false truths they lap up because it seems right to be different. But sometimes you can’t be different, and when you’re part of the crowd, you just can’t bear it.
On days the moon shows up more than the sun, you write late into the night; about broken hearts, broken fists, and love songs. You’re a star, a sky of its own, an ocean, a mountain, a cliff. You’re the sheer and breathtaking drop. You’re silence and energy drunk, and getting into bar brawls. It’s right. It’s perfect. You wish it never ends. But it does.
It slowly does, creeping out of your fingers, your skin, till you can’t remember the last time you wrote something.
On days you’re stuck in a rut, you want to put the gun to your head just to see if you can still feel the cold metal through your tear-drenched hair. You feel too much. You’re afraid to be happy; curse everything good that happens. Invite sadness to your door, offer some coffee only to be refused because the corners of your mouth seem more upward than down. You sleep too much, you feel like you can’t sleep at all. Your temper is a tempest without Ariel to reign it back in. You’re angry because you don’t know why. You don’t know why it feels right to be happy or unfeeling or emotionless again. You pull yourself into the vortex of pain, try your best to scar your body with bad memories till you forget who you used to be.
Writing is a fucking drug, complete with withdrawal symptoms and ecstasy.