Making love to paper
Hello, readers. I've found that one of my issues in life is passion (or lack thereof). I go to work every day, come home, eat, clean, and maybe check social media or read.The days start to blend together, becoming a gray blur void of passion. My weekends, I may venture out into the world, but it generally feels like a sore attempt at superficial happiness. Before I know it, I'm spiraling back into the same routine that landed me in a mental hospital, painting birdhouses and under 24/7 surveillance. When I recognize it, I begin to wonder if I should reach out. But you can only reach out so many times before all you can think is that your friends must be really sick of being your crutches. So then what? As I try to think of ways to reignite my life, I continue to fall. When was the last time I went outside other than to get to work? How did it get to be the end of the month already? When was the last time I called my grandma? Did I eat today? These questions pop in and out of my head, making me scared and anxious while I still try to figure out what to do.
So what do I do? How do I break out of a potentially deadly routine?
When lost, there's one thing that always brings me peace. As you've probably guessed by now, given the name of this site, it's poetry. Sometimes my poetry isn't even "pretty." Often, it's very messy. It's a swirl of colors as I break down and spill ink all over my blue-lined pages. The college ruled paper feels the passion that had been dormant in me the whole time, each frantic scratch of the pen leaving a permanent indentation. My sentences are disjointed and my handwriting long and loopy, a mix between cursive and print as my hand works purely off of muscle memory to transfer my thoughts for me. Sometimes too much ink flows, and there will be a splotch where I hesitated for a mere moment. Moments like this, I feel my passion rising up again, and my relationship with my emotions becomes almost violent. My words slap me, then roughly push me back on the bed, breath coming so heavily that I can't tell the difference between it and the blood rushing through my ears...or the scratch of paper being tattooed under my hand. My writing and I are lovers, fighting and fucking and sometimes both. We scream at each other, unleashing the color my gray days had been keeping locked away. We hold each other with soft hands and rough grips, each trying to win dominance over the other. Our bodies writhe and intertwine, until we're like two eagles, locked together as we plummet towards the earth at deadly speeds, only breaking apart to narrowly escape death.
When it's done, I'm alone, but I'm not lonely anymore. I become just a little bit different every time I write, my soul changed by the opportunity to express itself.
So, for anyone who wasn't scared off by my near-manic description of writing, if you find yourself feeling dark and empty, if you wonder where your days have gone and why you keep pushing through your broken record life, write. Write even if all you're writing about is why you write, in hopes that you'll find passion by inspiring someone else.