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It begins in feeling. Vibrations wave through viscera. Deep, dark, rolling waves come over me, coming up from the center and taking hold. Taking me over, making me over, got me singing Dionne Warwick, Don’t—
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But it’s too late. The center has exploded. The bomb detonates. The ground shakes, the air breaks, the sky rains down clouds of filth. Fire burns until it burns no more and all that is left are these fragments and shards, charred, burned beyond recognition and me, I am. Lost and found. Found and lost. The picture is shattered and what remains is a puzzle of how many pieces and what did it look like in the first place?
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Don’t know. Can only find out when I sit still for long enough to go backwards through hell. Begin with what remains, all that is left, trying to see if there is some semblance of sense that can be made by putting words to print. To think in words is to trap myself but they are my métier, and so I use myself. As bait. As trap. As predator. As prey. The circle is complete when I am yin to my yang, yang to my yin, and I realize, this is why it hurts so bad.
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I couldn’t, even though I wish I could, walk away. It’s too late. The show must go on. And I set it all up. I mean, none of this is by accident, even if I didn’t know exactly what it was for. It reveals itself, each and every step of the way, how this is the means to self mastery, self esteem, self respect. All the things I never learned, now I open the book to the very first page.
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Blank page. That’s not so hard. Blank is peace, soothing me with its clear, cool charm. Blank is pure, untouched, unfettered pleasure of absolutely anything I dream. Possibility will always be superior to actualization if only because possibility hasn’t been touched. Blank I love. Blank is all I could be, to remove a little bit, each and every day. Blank one day, once again, when I return to from whence I came.
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It’s not the blank that hurts. It is the act. Returning once more to discover what is left. If it is left. If there is anything there, or if I have to recreate it all, once again, deep inside my soul. I must, and thas where it starts. Or stops. Writer’s block isn’t the fear of writing, it is the fear of reliving the past.
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But. I relive it anyway. It never ends. The screen in the eye of my mind, forever replaying clips from the past. Remixing them, splicing them along, so that memory is not the thing itself, but a pattern, a song. To put it to paper, this is the trick, to find the strength to discover the words that to allow me to simultaneously hold and release this feeling. That’s all there is.