Hell. A place different for every person, and yet the same for all.
Willing yourself out of a hell-hole is fruitless. You can no more decide to get up, toss the cot depression has forced a deep slumber in, than the ocean can decide to leave it’s bed. Those who reside on sunny beaches do not understand. Lying on a sandy towel is far different than drowning in the sea’s bed.
I’ve not been able to write. For a writer to not be able to write, it is a very specific kind of hell. The way I keep the world from running me over like a Mac truck is to restrain it and contain it with words. Forcing life to conform to a page; insisting that it take up residence within letters, words, and sentences; it takes the helplessness away.
I’ve never written like other people do. I’m kinda an odd bird. Most people have a vague idea what they want to express, feel a burning desire, and then grab a pen and paper or the keyboard to sketch out what they want to say. It maybe only be an outline or a cluster of words or quotes, but they have a clue.
I’m not really sure how to do that. Writing possesses me, not me it. Authorship dictates what I have time for; what priority my time and obligations get to number in rank, deciding what I will do, in which specific order, to secure my release. Sometimes it can be freeing and heavenly. Sometimes it can be an impatient beast, moody and demanding. Regardless, I live within the parameters that it calls upon my soul in order to keep this life thing rolling along.
Usually I sit down, place my fingers at the keyboard, and I relax. I don’t look at my screen. I stare out the window, maybe watch a bird or a squirrel do their thing. I let my senses loose; let them carry me away while slowing my heart rate slows to a crawl, and, like a burst of life giving breaths, words spring forth and I begin to write.
Now is not the “usually” time in my life, not by a longshot. Now is hell.
Mother’s crave quiet. Mother’s crave the beauty of stillness.
Authors fear the stillness of fingers on a keyboard and the quietness of their minds.
The ability to not be able to write has not just squashed my voice, it’s murdering my wandering soul. I am no longer able to think. I can’t breathe. My lungs have a mountain of hopelessness sitting atop them.
Exhaling. All I can do is exhale. Panic rises with each bit of air that leaks out.
What happens when there’s no more air to release? Tears, sweat, then blood.
Blood begins to take the air’s place. Life giving blood pours out every crevice. Every drop empties me of the will to even try.
There was a time that words were like grains of sand. They flowed from my fingers, escaping regardless of whether I wanted them to or not. Now? What once was life giving, the act of putting words to the page, has turned on me, and, for every word that goes untyped, it punishes me.
I’ve become hollow, empty, depressed. I fell into a hole and I cant climb out.
I’m in a bottomless, wordless, hellish pit that light refuses to enter. The entrance is sealed with nothing but a password and I can hear the mocking laugher, mocking the fact I have no words to offer.
I must escape. Much longer in this wordless hell and this damned place will become lethal. the last words that will be written will be, “The end.”