Iris season (part three)

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A miscellaneous chapter.

Rewriting DNA
The stories still live within me, retelling themselves loudly, every piece of myself was molded by what I needed to do to survive.
I want to talk about it. I need to talk about it. The memories pump through my veins.
This changed the structure of my cells. This grew my brain into something entirely different than it could have been. This is written behind my eyelids and carved into my bones.
How could it not be? How could I ever let something like this be anything else?
These stories are roots that have sunk deeply into the ground.
I believe that I am not my pain, I am so much more than his, but let us not pretend that these moments shaped my entire being.

The poet I am
Writing late into the night, drinking coffee and milk to have more time to tell the stories. Writing until sunrise.
Retelling the stories again and again. Writing the same story from sixteen perspectives. Writing until the stories are no longer replaying in my mind.
Writing chapters based on songs and poems based on lyrics. Using song titles as headings. Each chapter is carefully woven by the songs of today.
Contradicting myself ten times over. Writing about pain that never ends and suns that never stop shining.
Writing obsessively, writing endlessly. Writing until there's nothing left in me.
Writing as a way of being. Writing everything and anything. Writing to hold onto or to let go.
Writing the truth, whatever that may be. Writing the truth even if it changes. Writing the truth even if I'm not sure.

Disappearing ink
Every sensation is written in disappearing ink, every line of poetry is written honestly but the truth never remains still.
I have always been high or low, I know no middle ground, no euthymia in my mind and body.
In the lows everything feels something I have been dreading for months, something I derive little pleasure from, something I do with a mind waiting until it's over, something that is horrifyingly empty.
The gray possesses me, the hollow feeling consumes me, but it never lasts.
Soon the high comes, it rains loudly, the water droplets hitting every inch of my skin, the sun has risen.
Suddenly everything is my favorite thing, everything that was once not worth doing is now the thing I look for in everything around me, passion drips from my fingers.
I want to do everything and be everything. I'll stay up until the early hours of the morning writing about happiness, I'll enjoy every moment that passes.
The two cycles are deafening, I cannot feel them quietly. I cannot do anything but wear my states.

Sincerely October Where stories live. Discover now