Writer Girl, Interrupte
From the height of my balcony the world seems smaller, easier to tame. Easier to love. Sunlight lay across my knees like soft magic. I feel like an episode of my life, one that can only end if I am strong enough to fight the need to hear myself typing it alive over & over. “This past doesn’t need to be reused in the future,” I repeat like a mantra, biting my lips and my fingers and most intrusive thoughts. No blood comes out, only hurt. I am not even brave enough to bite hard.
I sit there quietly, late into the night. I’m feeling everything everywhere. My intensity is both a blessing and a curse. It comes with great responsibility, and a greater need for transparency. Not for the faint of heart. I love with both my hands and all of my fingers. When I hurt, I hurt in every colour, from every angle, in any lighting. Other feelings are bland, beige, tasteless. Mine grow into a thick, coarse darkness I have to keep kicking until it bleeds daylight all over again.
Fiery, roaring, breath-snatching, red hot soul. Bubbles deep in your stomach and your head spinning and your heart pounding kind of soul. I feel and I feel and I feel, like I am banging at the insides of a cage. There is too much me in me, until a rage spread thin, like apathy, takes over. I lay down by the window, exhausted at best, empty at worst. I still feel myself, but at a lower volume. I find comfort in knowing that the opposite of coherent is interesting – just enough to get back on my feet again.
They tell me to let it all out on paper, as if I should want to conserve it. My only ever salvation has been writing, and they know it. My soul stops bleeding into my mind for a few blessed hours. From messy and fragmented, I go back to proudly holding on to my gentleness. My enthusiasm inspires and humbles me, and being myself makes me want to go hard again. I fall in love with my aliveness, and how it makes me and breaks me all the same. But how can I write this time, when everything I write is a form of love?
When they take me by the shirt to remind me who I am, I push the words back into their not-now cages. “I don’t want to write” really means “I don’t want to love.” Not now.
“These mountains that you are carrying, you were only supposed to climb,” I laugh to myself, and cry to myself, and speak to myself in the same voice that would promise smoking more cigarettes and staying up another night with you on a sleepy dead end street, if only you’d ask. Instead, it tells itself stories. It tells me my stories. I didn’t ask, but I listen. I sound delirious, quick, and disconnected. Anxiety takes away all the commas and full stops I need to make sense of myself, and all I can do is wait it out.
Times like these I wish I could tie a knot at the end of my rope and swing from it already. I wish I could make myself feel safe and seen when my mind starts devouring itself. I wish I could run my own fingers through the knots of my soul. I wish that, when I spread my heart like butter on toast, I didn’t hope for someone else to come along and snatch it off my plate. I wish I could learn to love the skies I’m under. I wish I were the thunderstorms I hide from.
It’s easy to believe in yourself when you’re lying, because you’re talking about someone else. But I still go to sleep quietly, with my own truths in mind. I still won’t write them down. I am always told I am too much, and I don’t want to add any more to that just yet. “I’m sorry for the burden,” I tell the girl who still doesn’t know how to be kind to herself while blooming. I am the only who knows that her silence isn’t detachment; it’s a siren. I wish I could forgive her.
“Wild one with your screaming soul, I can feel you loving from here.”