Monsters...

Chapter 1

What is writing ?

The answers we seek...

Or scribble scrabble we come up with to release some deep, hidden story of ourselves that lies just underneath the surface of where our monsters live?

That part of your soul where light,no matter how fast it travels, could ever reach. The nicks and crannies, all the dust bunnies, the scary corners were afraid of, just waiting to be cleaned out.

We all want, more like need, to believe we are all good in some way. But in truth, were all monsters, some people just make the monster sleep with sedatives. Others are just fantastic pretenders. They've rehearsed all the questions, have all the answers ready in mind.

"How's your day?", they ask. And always the same response.

"okay". Crack a smile to keep up the Façade.

"Are you Okay?", they ask.The monster doesn't even blink an eye to answer.

"okay". Stifle a laugh the monster says, then they won't notice.

"How's school going?"

"okay". And with that they back off. The monster inside, grinning from ear to ear.

See what i mean? Great pretenders.

But how does the monster even get there? Does the monster just show up unannounced one day, or do we create it?

See monsters are created by swallowing the things we regret most, the aggression, the soul piercing pain that can make any tough man into a heap of blubbering mess. The boiling hot anger that rages day and night like waves that crash onto shore. When our face contorts to one others have never seen before, and fills them with fear. That's pure monster right there. Then there's the softer thing that we swallow, the lust, the hurt, the insecurities.

And the sad thing is, there is no way out of becoming a monster. Nor is there a cure for it. You just simply are.

Now this might be the time i refer to my earlier question...what is writing?

Is it still a way of letting the monster come out and play nicely? Think about it and you decide.

Writing for me is just a flow of words that come out pouring like blood from a wound. Wounds from the monster. A connection of hand, soul and monster intertwine like a braid. There's no mind involved. Only monster.

I don't even know what my next set of words will be, until my hand decide to write it.

Even the monster is reading while the hand is writing, like a new book I've never read before because it's a mystery to you and me.