Every time I start writing about this, I stop myself. I don’t want to think about it because I’m afraid of the implications.
Those dark places, memories that hurt more as time passes are becoming harder to tap into. I use them. Inspiration spawns from them, those memories.
Having someone who placates you when angry, listens intently to what you have to say, cares about you, is at the same time, artistically damaging.
I can’t hold onto the resentment for those who have scared me, not with her in my life. I feel loved, accepted, at ease – inept.
Socially malnourished, the terrible desire to connect with others through the written word dwindles.
I like being alone, I tell myself. It’s financially practical, emotionally safer, easier.
Unwanted, rejected, troubled: this is how I need to feel. This way is necrotic. This way inspires suicide.
This is the way meaningful art is created.