[No idea what this is about…if you peeps know, please do enlighten me!]
On this day, I grow restless. Let me then unburden my soul.
She said I have an old soul.
Tis strange to think I even have one. A soul, that is. It seems to me a word that belongs to an older time, a time of belief, of myth and wonder.
Is there a place where souls congregate?
Darkness and stillness and silence – “the rest is silence”
I’d blame Hamlet except… I understand him.
The thrill of spiraling darkness.
It frightens me.
In the end.
– Don’t ask me how.
I have no words to inhabit my purpose.
These are my sparring words.
Thoughts wither before the abyss.
And thus begins the fall.
After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the things we need the most in the world. -Philip Pullman
Source: stories #quote
Who decides what’s worth fighting for? What’s worth dying for? Are they one and the same?
Deep down inside, I’m terrified that everything you say about me is actually true.
I know I’d betray it all for a single, silent, moment of complete peace of mind. How that self-knowing shame burns.
All right or alright?
Good to know I’m dealing with the big questions in life.
See that darkness? Hear that silence? Feel that numbness? That nothingness?
Bury it deep.
So deep it’ll never see the light of day.
My heart actually hurts today. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the darkness. From burying everything so deep. Some people have said that they find it strange I don’t react strongly when I’m angry. I used to think it was an advantage – mastering my feelings so well that I could hold my tongue when my blood boiled. Over time, I’ve come to see there is a price.
I have no idea if it’s related.
I can feel the sinking feeling tugging at the corners of my heart, as if to wrench it from its place. Like a loose brick being pried out of place with a crowbar. I want so badly to give in, I really do. Embrace the darkness and forget. Darkness isn’t so bad, after all. It’s why I became a teller of stories. A wordsmith.
I couldn’t carry it within, couldn’t leave it be. I spurted and spilled it all over the page. Page, after page, after page. Diligently. Obsessively. I skipped sleep. I fucked up a few (well, several) times. I’ve been lucky in that I didn’t have that far to fall.
Time spent writing is never time wasted.
But once I click open that lock, what demons will I unleash?
I am probably overreacting. What’s the worst that could happen? I write something shit? Well, that’s nothing new. Maybe if I throw myself into something, I’ll actually stop feeling so crap.