Bouts Of Writing

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I'm in that particular headspace where you keep going back to old things.

Books that have already been read, movies already watched, music already listened to. Because it's old, it's familiar and it's safe.

There's no danger of a bad plot twist that leaves you reeling or an unexpected character death that rips your heart out. It's strange, how I rotate around familiar things because starting something new is just a reason for anxiety.

When bad things happen, I tend to seek comfort in familiar things because they seem close and personal and you just know what's going to happen? I've already said this. I'm repeating things. Going on like a broken record. Old and forgotten. My thoughts are incoherent and aren't following anything in particular.

I'm tired.

I'm apathetic. To violence. And screams. And curses. And blows that ring.

I grew up in it, and now when it's too quiet I hear them shouting and I feel tired. But they're not shouting. I just hear an echo of them shouting. It rings in my head, bounces off the corners of my mind, and resonates somewhere near my heart and aches and aches and aches.

Usually, when I write, I have a vague idea of where I'm going, but today it's like the words are pouring and my mind is pried open by force, and it's very loud. Everything is so loud.

I think it's relatable. Going back to things you find comfort in, the familiar things. Right now, I'm re-reading a book. It's a lovely book. Beautiful. I know what happens but I read it again. Because it's there. It won't leave. It won't slam a door in my face. It's quiet and my head will ring with words from the book rather than them.

Incoherence in writing is bad. Because you don't get readers who stay. But this book isn't there for readers. It's for me. And an audience who can leave if they want to. And if they don't I'm grateful.

So if you're staying, bear with me in this piece. I think today I want to rip out my spine and paste it on a page and then bleed words onto it. Maybe my tears will turn to gold and lay splattered, creating a pattern that you can spend a couple of days discerning.

I want to find a way to sleep. Without the shouts ringing. But that's difficult when you live in it.

I like reading hurt/comfort tropes because it allows me to imagine I have physical comfort rather than giving it always. It's lonely and pathetic and weak.

I tell others it isn't but I'm a hypocrite. You shouldn't believe a word I say. I'm a terrible person, I've fooled all of you into thinking I'm nice. I'm a horrible human being.

I crave the darkness and silence though I fear both. I thrive in chaos when I'm in pain because it's familiar and happiness and contentment are not. When I write I'm incredibly dramatic and make you roll your eyes in disgust.

I hate. I hate. I hate. I hate.

I love.

But it never seems to make them stay. And it's usually my fault.

I'm going to forget writing this and then find it again and cringe hard enough I collapse inwards and my back breaks.