When you’re feeling it – it isn’t startling.
Nothing is startling.
Ha! I finally know and understand the definition of apathy.
Unrelated to apathy –
I feel like some invisible disease has punctured my skin, slithered in, and has found a way to live inside me, parasitically changing me, holding me in a strange in-between, a madness, a muted, a roaring duality of pain and nothingness.
Trapping me from within, trying to squeeze the breath out of me.
It’s like a living entity is sitting on my chest; squeezing my heart in a fist of silver and hardness, harshness, imbuing it with sharpened flecks of poison; languishing in my gut, knotting me into coils and pressured twists; cracks breaking through the veneer.
And how am I still alive?
Am I?
If I barely swim to the surface of myself.
Sometimes this is all I have to give.
The madness has to come out sometime.
And how blessed am I? Writing gives me a way to breathe.
If only I’ll stop trying to control it. It isn’t always going to be pretty; it’s coming from within me. Sometimes giving the disease swarming inside me, leaching to my bones, and scratching at my soul with metallic nails – words, a voice, helps me.
Instead of leaching inwards, only swirling inside my rib cage, I can spill it onto the page and let it live there.
It may be a little worrisome to those who have never dealt with depression (depression and feeling sad are not the same thing, by the way). Perhaps it’s a little depressing to read for some.
But for me, it’s like expelling poison.
A saving grace.
That, is why I write.
How maddeningly beautiful, how simply poised I find it that both poison and the cure live inside me.
