Love letter
My relationship with creation only serves to further claw into recesses of my mind that I don’t want to look at. Not only is the act of actually pulling pieces of my soul onto a piece of paper exhausting, it’s also revealing and therefore a painful process. I cannot say I don’t enjoy it. Because there is a sickening part of me that wants to lay everything down neatly, coherently - I haven’t figured if it is so that I myself can see it in clarity, or so other people understand.
And yet, that still isn’t the worst part of it all. It’s not having all your cards on the table, or the effort it takes to slowly peel layers of you open. It’s after that. After everything, when you’re standing raw and out in the open; it’s when despite everything, all of that doesn’t change the result.
Like screaming into a void, Rouis said. You aren’t even granted an echo of some kind. The blackness simply swallows all of your voice. You are left with nothing, given nothing, despite having given everything.
