I write stories. Some of you have read them, some have not. A lot of them are stories of love, romance, sex, being swept away in the feelings that you can get lost in. The truth is many times I write about the things that I long for – those that are missing in my life. I want to be wooed. I want my head to swim in giddy delight without feelings of apprehension and insecurity. I want to feel this way. I want to be everything to someone and have them be my everything in return.
There have been a couple of times that I really felt this way. They were much too short-lived and it hurt much too badly when it ended. How can you make yourself vulnerable to that again without fear?
I was working on a story last night – it is coming along quite nicely. As I dove head first into the tale, it spewing out of my fingers almost like I was on auto pilot, it began - the longing. It starts as a nagging little twinge, and develops into a full-blown sense of dread and emptiness. The story is too personal, too close to exactly what I need and want so badly. I have to back away from it for now, and regroup. I'm tempted to scrap it – delete it and never go back, but I can't. Not yet, anyway.
There is this hole in my heart. Sometimes I think I’ve found something to fill it, I am temporarily placated only to realize all too soon that it is just as empty as it's always been. All the qualifications can't be met. I don't want a temporary fill. My true fear is that I will never feel complete, never satisfied. None of my stories will ever come true and I will end up alone. I am my own worst enemy and I can't stomach my own persecution some times.
How I long to be the characters in my stories – they are confident, strong and sure of themselves and the love they pursue. Why do I create these fruitless ideals? I constantly set myself up for disappointment – or is that what optimism is all about? If it is, I think I prefer to go back to pessimism. In a lot of ways, it's less painful.
I wonder how many other writers do this to themselves, or if it is just me. ...and why is it that these demons, the bastards, help me to write some of my most inspired and beautiful works? They're so very dark, but black is beautiful.
I’m so tired but I can’t sleep
Standing on the edge of something much too deep
It’s funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word
We are screaming inside, but we can’t be heard