•An ode to all those who write•
It confused me from the beginning. I did not choose to be born with a fucking storm in my mind. I did not choose to feel helpless. I did not choose to feel.
It was as if I had faded into the background. Not a silent oblivion. The background that was nothing but chaos – an incessant buzz pounding against my eardrums.
People say that I’m going to be the death of me. Perhaps, this is what all writers hear. It’s a strange crime, isn’t it? The one thing that is healing my heart, is wrecking my mind. My heart comes as a wounded soldier, spending years on the front line, fighting a war it never asked for. They say tears cleanse the soul. But what if words are the tears that my soul cries? How every sentence in ink is a blot of my consciousness. I have found myself defeated and torn apart by reckless savages. But these words craft themselves into bandages and swords. Into second third and fourth chances.
I have never felt more alive. Every feeling is an explosion, every kiss an intense affair. For the first time, Rome didn’t fall. I have built empires with my fingertips. I’d always choose a lover reciting my words to his beloved, over experiencing love myself. I’d rather live in painfully eloquent agony, than in whims of realistic expectations.
I may litter the ground with poetry and breathe and rant only words. But I choose this. I choose this to be my apocalypse.