One important thing I've learned from venting via my writing is that everything changes. The way you feel changes like the seasons, anger is subdued by time and it sleeps a deep sleep. Dissolution is washed away by the rain of forgetfulness and disambiguation. Lessons learned are all stored away for easy access, but shouldn't keep anyone from making contact with others. Life moves on, and so should the self.
Though one thing will always stick like crazy glue. No matter how hard I try, I have never been able to wash it away. It's always left a stain so thick, so bright, that not even a monsoon of experience could ever get rid of it. Love.
Things done because of Love, angry letters, long diatribes, isolation, obsession, they all seem so morose and entail a sickness which I've only just truly uncovered. It is dangerous, yet it is accompanied by beautiful experiences and emotions. One must truly be careful as it is a loaded gun and thus must be treated as such. Only use it when you absolutely need to, and there is no other way out. Build a wall? Yes, but only to see who is willing to break it down.
This is something I've learned. I hope to do some introspective writing soon, as someone once asked on a comment somewhere else "what about you?" Well, that is all to come with due time. I think I know what I did, why I found myself sick with emotion, and the only way to truly understand it and work it out for me will be to put down on writing. Will I be exposing my soft underbelly? Yes and no, because that person is no more, but I do wish to understand why I did what I did, everything else is kind of meaningless, as I will never be able to speak to that person I once loved, or understand their reasons for being as they were.
Kind of like my dream
Standing behind a glass
she's on the other side
on crutches
broken foot
I slam the thick glass doors
scream under water
but she will not listen
cannot hear
ignores me
and the world turns black
as my lungs fill with fluid.
I am dead to you, and I understand that now.
Short stories, poems, among other play things. A constant work in progress. Forever changing.
