The Writer

I’m stuck somewhere between wanting to live and wanting to die

I’m stuck somewhere between wanting to live and wanting to die. There is something missing from my writing, it used to have something that it seems not to anymore. I can’t quite describe what. Maybe what’s missing is feeling. It’s a feeling of dark wonder perhaps. A mental wanderlust and yearn to see what’s real, when staring into the most colorful void.

My void is colorful and colorless. My voice is shattered. I remember little pieces of who I was then, before I hanged myself from a belt in my bedroom. It was about two-months after my eighteenth birthday.

I feel a dreadful searching nature in the words of my seventeen-voice. Ripe with a hope that macerates my stomach. And there we have it. Exorbitant hope, that is what it became to me. I digressed within my own writing, the hope disappeared. The hope that joy would become something tangible, the hope that love would find me.

I have an entire life that never shows its face, never tells its story. I have a heart that has never been followed, and they at least used to write. And now, that is no more. My secrets speak in rhyme and riddle. I am not a whole person. I don’t feel the world the way I used to. I stopped wanting for its touch. I suppose that is how one might become other worldly.

My memories are blurred from the beginning. From childhood. I remember more thoughts more than experiences. An inverted perception is the result of no power outside, and all the time to play within.

Throughout my life I have had many profound experiences, most of them darkly shaded, but beautiful none the less. As far as my memories go, my mind soars on past them in rays of light that should be explained. I should be explained. I should explain myself, but I am so far away from that point in my writing. Not in my heart though. I’ve been telling a story in there for quite some time.  One day I’ll begin my tall tale of sorrow and redemption. Up until and past this moment I fight for everything I’ve lost, and all the things I can’t have.

I was brought up in a different environment from the rest of the kids I knew when I was growing up. Even more so now, very different from the people involved in my life presently. They never got me as a child, but as a child who feels gotten? None of us I think. Still, I felt very different from even the rest of the misfits in my childhood gang from the pines. I lacked something they had, and they lacked something I had. I never got a Barbie jeep for Christmas, I got a butterfly knife.