The words are like a necklace made of broken bottles, beautiful in its grotesque danger. Stabbing gently with each subtle move the necklace reminds the wearer of both the pain and beauty. beneath the weight of the translucent colors, the partial labels, and sticky residue the flesh of the chest rises carrying the ever-present reminder. Here. They are here. The pain brings them back every time to be here, wherever they are. The swaths of sentences and paragraphs come pouring like the falls of Niagra, overspilling on the shores. It all flows out. And they let it. They let the movement of the sharp jagged glass scrape across their flesh. They allow themselves to bleed. To feel their heartbeat pulsate to the rhythm of the clinking bottles. As the blood that runs through them gives them life the thoughts and ideas give sense to that life. A purpose to their consciousness. What is inside must come out. Every letter, syllable, word, sentence, idea, out there on paper so they can see what's inside. What was once floating through them coursing through their veins has been smeared across the once endless page. Frustratingly anguishing over what seems to be the inevitability of not being able to get it all out.
Thoughts on writers
Updated: Sep 10