Too Weird to Live

This fear I've cultured for failure has distanced me from my pen and paper in the past few weeks. Streaming with ideas that flow smoother than a spoon full of honey, I've got no where to set them free. It is not a monster I am afraid of. The keys themselves do not strike me rigid. It is the bones in my hand that slow and quake with chills when I begin to walk towards my desk. The glow on the keys becomes a blur and I feel every muscle crossing my shoulders creak with rust and yank with the seemingly horrid intention of crushing my skull into my ribcage. The endless throb of my temple forces the solid point of interest away from the forefront of my attention. No longer needing to focus my hands, void of the idea I had a moment before, I back away from the desk. Such as a stray dog tucks his tail and bows to the werewolf strolling through his neighbourhood. I don't feel like I've neglected my own creativity, but I'm on the cusp of said malpractice. Whether this is inner reflection, conjured from thin air, or relative to the "real" world and it's terms and conditions. Something I don't remember ever agreeing to.

When I do happen to survive the war and reach my destination chair, I feel more haunted than normal. I sit blankly entranced by the blinking text marker, waiting to be beaten to a pulp by the inferior words I had just deleted. Depleted I press the lids of my eyes closed as hard as I can. Airy and dry, yet the tears well up like the saliva in my mouth when I think of skittles. My world is empty, as I ponder the weight of my creation before jotting down the cliffs. While the room might be consumed by the profound soul and beauty that is Maradona, and the pacing/licking/snurffle of the dog, I feel stranded. Crusoe with the will to write my way off an island. But a nagging spirit stands behind me. Their aura strangling. The clench of their fingers digging slowly into my collar. When I convince the puppet master to yank the strings attached to my hands and allow me to lean forward, the ghostly self destruction lurking at my six paralyses my spine. Motionless I lose track of the time spent fighting nothing. Absolutely nothing. For no reason.

It's gone too far

I'm no therapist, or psychologist, but the plague that some might chalk up to "writer's block" isn't one to be trifled with. I don't believe in writer's block. In the common consensus of the term. As someone who has written both monotonous content, and emotionally draining pieces, there is a threshold of safety built up between your mind and your fingers. When you have nothing to write, the waves slash up against the barrier, but don't grab our attention, we are not worried. But when something comes out of the blue--it is not of this world. It is possession of the mind. I am no longer recognizable as the person seen at the notebook. Sure, I sit back every so often to conference with my inner-monologue over possible trapped corners, or answering questions that lead into the future, but generally I am in dire need of an exorcist. The psychotic need to milk an idea from your conscience is not an act of man, it is a devine hell that can rip the emotion from your heart and throw it against the wall in a dark taboo arousal created by the splatter it makes.

I want to be successful. I find this ache in my bones when I contemplate the end of my life. An urge to make it meaningful bellows from the corridors of my tomb. Deafening at times, I can only blame myself. Not a single soul puts the pressure on me. It is a Olympus sized burden I bestow on my own. I look at my heroes, instead of dreaming to be them like any normal worshiper, I feel that it is my place to end up beside them. It is equally as hard not to fit into their wheel-house. I have spent many sleepless nights attempting to weave a voice that oozes with my own personality. Something of a black thumb has seen to it many directions be blocked off by wayward horrors and fallen bridges. The contempt I feel when I create on this blog is generally warming. I feel like it is my voice. The strongest version of such. However, the 21st century is not a welcoming home for such an adventure into the mind of a person. It's not sellable; is where I was going with that. At least it doesn't feel like there are many options on the gps. There are places on the planet who culture and grow true voices. Lots of the personal written stuff on HuffPost is great and flourishing with intelligent properties. Local powerhouse HUSH Magazine prides itself on the concept of individuality, and megaphone blasting of internal demons. It is the ideal house for fear and loathing. Wit and roars of grandeur can accompany such a unique watering hole of talented writers, packed with head-dizzying opinions of the world we're forced to be married to.

In normal life, I desire to remain transparent. I know that the curled up version of myself that slumps on the couch can force a heavy environment on those around me. Maradona keeps me grounded. When I'm caught up in the whirlwind and my pretty blue checkered dress flies over my eyes, she clicks my heals for me. Somedays (like the past few) are gloomy. I can feel her heart whispering concerns in my direction. I feel for her. I feel guilty for wearing my agony on my sleeve as I see first-hand the effect it has on M's world. Our world. But I cannot always play off like something isn't eating away at me. Which I suppose is another reason we're together. She revels in the conversations we have. When the serious switch gets turned on and I speak from a true origin, we always get well into the calendar before we realize how far time has gone by. She is the cooling water to my freshly mangled metal.

Too rare to die

The things I write change me. They change you (if you've read this far). And they most certainly change those around me. While M is probably my biggest fan, and supporter, I feel more of a need to succeed in taming my pen for her sake.

At the end of the day, this most recent bout is nearing an end. And while I may have been tossed around, and bloodied, I will come out on top as normal. Writer's block is for the weak, the incoherent, and the excuse wielder. When you lay in a trench without weapons, the onslaught of terrifying outcomes will flood your motor-skills with an inability to delve into a word document. That is beyond the common misconception of writer's block. The paragraphs will flow when they are meant to, and mean something. Otherwise you're just pulling shit out of your ass. This post starting with a direction, and now I'm just spinning in a forest without a compass. Mossy trees stand tall in mockery. I sign off.

Adorned by,


"The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over." 
- Hunter S. Thompson