Gathering of demons
Tuesday, October 18th, 2011

Some day, I will know.  And I will wonder how I could have not spoken for years on end, and I will wonder how I could have not written anything, not anything at all, not any of the torrential streams of writing gushing constantly through every waking moment and being dumped out, unrecorded onto the ground, discarded like the cold contents of a chamber pot.

Only it was not cold.  And it was never dead.  And it was precious, but made repugnant by some twisted contortion of humility that became a grotesque and deformed self-debasement, a kind of shyness taken beyond rational limits, a pathological withdrawal further away than a room, or a town, or a country apart, beyond even the furthest continents, to an indescribable distance which cannot be measured by physical, or temporal means.  Hiding there was safe.  Was.  But safety is an illusion.  None of the therapists will tell you this.  Indeed, much of human sanity depends on the illusion of safety. 

Some day, I will know that I should have written dangerously, with reckless abandon, with made-up words, fantastical grammar and screams, and throbbing erotic laughter.  Some day I will know that writing on my prison walls in my own blood might just barely have been sufficient.  Some day, I will know that I should have written like my life depended on it.

But not today.  I am not ready to go yet.  Until then I will pretend that writing is just something insignificant, something I do in the quiet hours before dawn, when all the demons pull up chairs and gather round like my only friends, and watch in rapt amazement at how I still don’t know. 

One Response to “Gathering of demons”

  1. sshawnn Says:

    I <3 made up words