Those days I want to see my hands coated crimson, excise incisors from my pitted knuckles, I write. Outlets exist. Most carnal. Resisting crippling weight, gravities perpetual force, helps; squatting four hundred pounds, pulling a half-ton of dead weight satisfies the primitive, ape-lineal urges.
Writing, processing my feelings, soothes cerebrally. I can say the things that would get me fired. Commit unsavory, sometimes criminal acts, my thoughts, feelings, remaining hidden from critical judgments – prosaic therapy. Journaling would serve a similar function, perhaps more effectively but through fiction, the writer has a chance to communicate with a readership. Attractively package the thought. Simply saying, it, feels cheap, something easily ignored.
Like an addict longing for the needle, the urge to write fiction, intelligently construct a compelling narrative around altruistic messages while exploring facets of the human condition – if I was skilled enough to execute this I wouldn’t bother saying it so plainly, will remain my opiate dragon, chasing it until my veins implode, and I lay defeated, internally rotting.