I had to massacre this sadness; all I could do was bleed it onto paper to forge a sense of vacancy in my body. I wrote endless myopic words, I kept going because sometimes it was a way for the secrets to surface, the only means of survival. Just words on a page, letters touching, infinite spaces between them. Sometimes the letters didn’t have any correlation and other times they met like long lost lovers under the sun.
I didn’t want to feel everything at once. I needed the feelings to materialise sequentially so at least my body could process, decipher, compartmentalise them. I had to realign my organs, shift emotion to create space for love and life, to feel or absorb another sentiment.
I didn’t want to be overwhelmed by my own flesh. It was too heavy; a centre of gravity anchoring me into the ground like stagnancy in quicksand. It was as if someone was slowly peeling away layers of my skin, exposing the raw flesh resting beneath it. I was an unhealed wound, susceptible, transparent.
Was I really alive? I didn’t even know sometimes. I looked in the mirror and was terrified of not being able to see a reflection.
My head was full, always at war with my veins. I thought that survival was supposed to be intrinsic, why did I have to consciously keep talking myself into existing?