I haven't written in so long. The words are slow syrup and I'm sitting here, indulging in my own sadness. I've written and I've painted and my little heart is still empty as hell.
There she is - always trying to fill herself up.
But that's what emptiness does. It aches and it hurts you and the pain feels so blinding, so acute that something inside you begins to wither.
This is not a story of sadness, neither though is it a story of redemption. This is a story of humanness, of conquering and of failing, of pain and joy and an unquenched silence.
There is beauty around me, a man I love and for the first time ever sobriety (so tentative, so fragile). At moments, the urge to drink is like a heavy stone sitting inside me. I could almost cry from the hunger. Feed me, it calls. Feed me.
Today I will not feed the deep desire. Today I will sit on my bed, alone in my room, and sit with these quixotic feelings. How can I be both happy and sad all at one? Peaceful and anxious? A juxtaposition of opposites seems to swirl around me.
I don't know who I am and I don't know who I am not.
Inside I am writhing, a hot pit of fire and ash. Outside, I am a glassy rainbow. I am sunshine and spring and little sprigs of flowers. Every little thing feels too deep. But perhaps I am lucky, to feel with abandon.
I've let myself go to the ends and back. But the ends of what? Of heaven or hell? Of pain and beauty? The ends of something. The ends of it all.
But here I am: back at the beginning. For the first time ever. New. (less)