Sadness inspires – I find the connotations of this rather grim, but I still can’t deny the truth of it. Why doesn’t happiness have the same effect, I wonder? Some of man’s best work was created in fits of rage, anxiety, insecurity and extreme pain.
A sad story is always a good story. I don’t like it at all, but I am a child of the same monster.
Even now as I feel my heart is breaking once again, I feel the need to write.
Is it because I need distraction? Is it because I need to get the ache out of me and writing is the only way I can do it? Or is it simply because sadness awakens creativity for some mysterious reason?
I don’t know. I don’t even care. I just want to write.
It is the most devastating thing when you realize that something you went through once and managed to come back from with so much difficulty can revisit you with every bit of strength than the last time. Even if it’s under different circumstances now, the hurt is just as overwhelming – worse because now you know from experience to expect hell.
I just want to run away from it. If that makes me a coward then so be it. I just want to get as far away from this feeling as I can. I’ll do anything.
Surgery? So a doctor can pull the intestinal strands of pain out of my stomach; extract the part of my brain that holds memories that are now longer valid; untangle the knots of hurt in my muscles.
A heart transplant perhaps? So that I can get a brand new one without any previous experience of breakage. So it can pump new, invigorated blood into my system and help me to come alive again. I am so tired of being dead.
Maybe I just need a new pair of lungs – something to help me breathe. My breathing feels so stilted, it hurts to take in the air; it’s an effort to push it out again.
I don’t know what it will take – I’ll do anything; I will take the medicine, no matter how bitter it is.
I feel I would need to write an epic to describe how I feel, but I neither have the perseverance nor the skill to do so. Yet, I have this bursting inside of me to write something that will make people weep to read it, that will pierce their own experience, divide up some of my hurt and make them cry for me so that I wouldn’t have to fear drowning in my own tears.
I wish I could write an ‘In Memoriam’ to my Love. Love that is dead. Love that meant everything but has now been reduced to nothing. Love that never should have been. Love that killed me, like a snake, with a slow poison that let me bathe in blissful ignorance until that split second before everything fell apart.
But my fingers fail me. My command of the language isn’t sufficient, and I am haunted by my own inadequacies, on so many levels.
I am sitting here in the middle of my house, crumbling away while no one notices. And I don’t want them to. Pain this extreme is always best handled alone. I don’t want comforting lies – I should be an expert on those by now. But I still let them ruin me.
I pause in my writing, exhausted. There is so much more to say.
I want to hurt, to maim, to kill, to humiliate. Such ugly emotions. I want to drag my deceitful Love in front of an accusing audience – millions of faces that look like mine – strip it bare and show the world how false it all is. I want the fingers to point, I want the guillotine rushing down, I want to be covered in the blood of a love that was never mine, I want it to have never existed, I want to take some of the power it took from me and be its executioner. I want everyone to learn from my mistake. I want realisation to wash over them like the deadly ring of radiation rushing outward after a nuclear bomb.
I am that bomb, along with my Love. And we have destroyed each other.
More, more, my hands seem to whisper. I barely concentrate on the words on the screen, but instead watch as my fingers fly over the keys as if possessed by demons.
I’ve heard that the pen is stronger than a sword but my words feel blunt and useless to convey how I feel. Instead they hack at my open wounds, making the hurt worse. Everything makes it worse. I want to direct the hurt at its cause but it is impervious to my pain. Unmoved. Cold, like dead stone.
If my words were bullets, they would merely deflect off my unfeeling Love and come streaming back to hit me square in the chest. Killing me yet again.
And, for the millionth time, Love has won and I have lost.