It's undeniable how tragic it is when your emotional escape is unreliable and your failsafe to feel safe is a blank page on a book that is no longer your friend or your lover or your therapist - whats the point of outlets if you they're so unpredictable, how do you prepare for this?
catharsis is a craving, a form saving me from me - my only enemy, and the conscience to decision to cast away my terumos and stick to those doodles, prayers ,parables and passages on the side of the margin of a page was an effort to keep switch from 'half a cc- can you still see me because I'm not really here' to the holy water from our father found in the black ink of a fountain pen that's inconsistent and refuses to comply when i need it the most, even though it's not writers block because could write and never stop it just doesn't feel so relieving when i cant put a meaning to the words that spew helplessly out of my soul when I'm slowly losing control of what it means to be here, a real person with a no real escape because I've got a taste for Bourbon in a bottle or a flask but I'm trying to make that a memory, a distant part of my past. so now I've got a taste for tears after all these years of hurting everyone that i could because i never knew my own life was a contract with some maker that takes out all of his anger on his children and leaves them lifeless with a steady pulse but no real purpose or meaning or instruction, so you decided to give it one and fooled around in bed with the funny ideas in your head of having a son who most obviously didn't want to be here because he came out kicking and screaming and filled with fear- decidedly normal for every newborn but has anyone ever wondered this okay? crying is a learned reaction to stimuli that you know to avoid each and every day because we're animals with an instinct to not dare think about putting our hand on a hot stove more than once or twice in our life because the sensation of melting flesh just doesn't feel right but neither do i, i never did. so i withdrew from the norm and quietly hid under my covers for the impending storm that nobody could see except me, brewing deep inside of my heart - no not that part of me i guess because that little pink pacemaker stays true to its function and purpose of keeping blood rushing through my arteries and veins, nourishing every part of my brain to keep me aware enough that it hates me and will never ever try to comply with any dream or desire to cut the power supply that invigorates that meaningless desire to rebel from its own motherboard that tells it to put an end to its living hell
this is not catharsis at all its much more masochistic and if I'm being realistic, I'm cheating on my only lover with another device strikingly similar in physical design. but please make no mistake- this pen is simply no friend of mine.
