“on the topic of love and writer’s block”
i wasn’t the brightest kid in school, but i was always attracted to a certain kind of philosophy when it came to writing
there is no such thing as writer’s block
or so my english professor would have me believe. she would tell me to write even if i didn’t feel like any words could come out and on that note—
i’ve used that same idea and pressed it deep into the flaws of love and lovers
and how you can’t have one without the other and i promise, i’ve been trying to let go for so long that when something normal finally came back into my life—
i immediately rejected it. has this ever happened to you? i know. it’s like that old saying, right? when it rains, it pours. when i love, i love until i break apart.
it’s not really your fault, i forgot that we started out free and somewhere in between the lines… we gave up freedom for safety and security. was that much of a life? was that much of a love?
they say that the ones we love the most are the first ones to hurt us. i’ve never questioned the authenticity of their wisdom. i’m just sad because it’s all too real. to hear a song and be immediately reminded of a face that you’ve been trying to forget.
writer’s block isn’t real and believing that a break up is the end of who they used to be is just another joke that doesn’t deserve your laughter.
i had to learn that there’s good in every fucked up situation even if we can’t see it right now. the tears that you’re crying— they’re just creating an ocean for you to sail across. the memories of spring gardens dancing in the back of your mind as the rain keeps falling has always been attractive. so when you fall in love again, you were no stranger to being fearful of losing someone again. a truth that none of us want to admit. so it’s a secret taken to the grave even if we do utter words that mean nothing. silly doses of reality spilling into the ink and slimming down your heartline— these very words were never mine. i think the greatest writers initially were inspired by a greater love. it doesn’t matter if it’s an object or a person. my darling, my baby, my lover—
love is love is love is love is love.
writer’s block isn’t real because when you actually try to write, i promise the words will fall through. they always do. don’t let this be another excuse to not look for gold where they said there would not be any. stranger things have happened between us and these are just words and you’re just reading through another one of my well-lit thoughts. and it doesn’t matter where you’re currently located. it doesn’t matter about how successful you are. it doesn’t matter if you’re dirt poor and you’re relapsing again. nothing matters in the end, but one small detail. are you willing to throw it all away? to start again? even if you’ve had a taste of failure, even if you never thought you could lose… would you be willing to go the extra mile for yourself?
i’ve read somewhere that kindness is a soft kind of sexy, so this one is for you. the one who keeps pushing me even if i’ve fallen down from grace. the one who stitched the different parts of my ugly and proclaims that i’m beautiful enough to wake up and look into that cracked mirror until it reforms. i have so many fucking problems that i hate about myself, but you have never been one of them. if anything, you’re more like new versions of an i love you that i’m finally able to bravely say out loud. are these feelings something that we’ve caught as humans? or were we soul bound? hell doesn’t have a flame as bright as the passion that you’ve used to light up my darkened nights. i know that i’m hopeless. i know that i’m full of shit. i know that i’m miserable. i know that i’m full of self-guilt and self-harm comes in the form of overflowing bathtubs and empty prescription bottles, but you’re all that i’ve been whispering when i want to be okay. you’re the most honest part about my mistakes. i think that’s why i’m in love with you. i think that’s why i accept you. you’re like me, but we’re so different. does that make any sense? none of this really does, i just know that you make me feel right. like if the earth stopped spinning for a day, you could bend the will of time and ask for one more moment. and if this is hello, please don’t ever let it end.
i’ve read somewhere that pain is picture perfect when you’re ready to come home and apologize. so when i speak about wanting to make amends and i don’t know where to start— you’re always the sentimental part of my thoughts. softer than a rain drop that’s about to form into the first white bead of snow melting on my tears. you wrote your saddest love poem and hid it on the highest mountaintop and said to me that it’s okay to be afraid of heights, just don’t be afraid to chase after your dreams— red balloons and parachutes spoken into existence like roses growing upon gardens of clouds, a cup of tea for every year that you kept me alive. was it when we were human? or were we soul bound? heaven was meant to be a place, right? i beg to differ. heaven is a person and her voice are just angels laughing and hoping that i’ve seen enough of the hatred. so i learned to love myself again when i made you my best friend. you’re my every waking moment. you’re the words on my wrist. you’ve seen me break. you’ve seen me reform. you’ve seen me lose myself, just to find myself by the time the sun comes back up. i love you does not do you any justice, so here’s a thought. if writer’s block is real then a pen is my dream catcher. everything i’ve ever written after you is just your way of chasing the demons away. everything that is positive, everything that is creative and mad to the touch— that’s how people like us function. that’s how we learned to love and i wouldn’t have it any other way.
i’ve been taking a break from being myself for so long, that it finally feels good to be back home. so i’ll write about love because love makes me feel good. so i’ll write about love because it never runs out of style. a cheesy and cheeky poem left in your back pocket— i know that i’m not enough sometimes, but if i’ve learned anything about writing… anything at all…
it is that writer’s block isn’t a sign that you can’t write. it’s just another reason for you to keep writing. even if you can’t. even if you don’t want to. even if you don’t know where to start. love is just the same. a self-expressive method to go insane inside of pure euphoria— drown yourself in the ink and lure away the pain and i promise— it’s all going to be okay.
writer’s block isn’t real, but the words that you produced even when you said that you couldn’t. from a place of vulnerability, from a place of understanding… that’s the exact same reason to determine if a relationship will fail or succeed.
