All Wretch & No Vomit
Writing is not necessarily an antidote to how I'm feeling.
It's more a way of pulling something out of my body, to see it hovering, almost tangible, articulated in words, filling space.
This helps me work out what things might mean, because I'm under no illusion that a lot of the time my experiences of abstract sadness are purely chemical reactions in my brain. It's just other times, they're not. Other times they are a consequence of the world around me, they are caused by the utter discontentment I have for myself, they are the thorn of living in a version of the world I never agreed to be a part of.
So when all this is inside of me swirling around and settling down like a black-tar lead-lump of thick grim silt, sunken to the pit of my stomach, writing is almost an attempt to spew it all out, before rifling through the chunks of detritus and confusion, endeavouring to work out what might be causing today's pain.
But like I said, writing is not the antidote, because most of the time I wretch but there is no vomit.
In life sometimes we wretch. We simply wretch and wretch and wretch, as we curl up in a ball at the foot of the stairs, but theres nothing to dissect and test, theres no answers, no conclusions, nothing inside of us is left, only a dull pain and better understanding of these key facts.
It's more a way of pulling something out of my body, to see it hovering, almost tangible, articulated in words, filling space.
This helps me work out what things might mean, because I'm under no illusion that a lot of the time my experiences of abstract sadness are purely chemical reactions in my brain. It's just other times, they're not. Other times they are a consequence of the world around me, they are caused by the utter discontentment I have for myself, they are the thorn of living in a version of the world I never agreed to be a part of.
So when all this is inside of me swirling around and settling down like a black-tar lead-lump of thick grim silt, sunken to the pit of my stomach, writing is almost an attempt to spew it all out, before rifling through the chunks of detritus and confusion, endeavouring to work out what might be causing today's pain.
But like I said, writing is not the antidote, because most of the time I wretch but there is no vomit.
In life sometimes we wretch. We simply wretch and wretch and wretch, as we curl up in a ball at the foot of the stairs, but theres nothing to dissect and test, theres no answers, no conclusions, nothing inside of us is left, only a dull pain and better understanding of these key facts.
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