I don’t get it. They tell me to write happy things.
But the thing is, you don’t feel the need to discuss your happiness on paper when you’re happy.
You just embrace the moment and live it.
I don’t want to talk about that.
Momentary silence. Dusk-lit bedroom apartment.
Buzzing of cars from traffic afar. It’s when I stare into myself. Melancholy loves company and misery loves to fuck with me. It’s pitiful. She sticks her head in while I’m telling a story. The room keeps spinning. I’m terribly sorry.
Today I apologize. I can’t be myself. Try again tomorrow. Bring me some help. And the day after that. Don’t fade into black. Amy said it best, when she said she’s treading a troubled track. Been in love with a gunslinger. Run my back with your fingernails. Tell me you’ll stay. Leave scars. Dig deep. I’ll tell you it’s okay with whispered breath. Inhale. Exasperated lust. Even if it hurts me, stab my grazing touch.
It hurt writing those last four lines. They weren’t even much. That’s the thing with being a writer, your emotion is raw like pouring a potion labeled love into a saucepan and stirring, caustic deterrence. Awestruck with how, my wrong spats of burning passion turn to Rorschach’s, where I can’t discern it. Call back. Let me hold your arms back. Let’s learn this way to explore our bodies. Near my chest there’s an armed guard trained in combat. Don’t go near there. Fade into all black. Fall asleep in my wine house. Dizzily pour up your last drink. Make sure the glass clinks. I’ve been told that noise is better than the absinthe. Better than your absence. Better than the last… You’re better when we laugh. Think to the last time you’ve told yourself to stop. Why did you go again?
Sometimes silence is nice. Most times I despise the need for questions. My secretary’s favorite line is “Would you like to leave a message?”