I sit here and let it happen sometimes. The feeling. I let it build.
The adamant desire in that particular instant to let it out.
Because that’s the weird grace I’ve been given.
Technically I am not really ever Without words, grace of God.
I’ve lived with this universe within me for so long, have seen their stories from so many angles that if i wanted to write on them nonstop for the next two years I could. Dictation and then delineation. Scene upon scene upon scene, like a supernatural stenographer. So the concept of daily pages doesn’t exactly fit. My geist.
But I need more than love. of writing.
For me the words are already there.
I write…when I can feel myself forget that. I say “No, I want to write,” and I open up the document and the words spill out and wipe away all of here, and I’m in a crowd, or whatever cluster of characters who have said okay to my soft yet sure proclamation, and I start sliding in, flitting between them like fireflies under sticky skies in summer. Their thoughts pour from my fingers as my geist helps them say and do the things they’d been waiting for me to let them say.
They are who I love.
Everything else could be burnt to the ground for all I care…but it’s bizarre proof that I do…because I’m writing them…for you. It’s the only sense of why in this I have, the thing that keeps me, that has me here. They are doing all these things, thinking them, putting words to shit in some parallel universe in an effort, some wild attempt…to ring out true to one of you. To help. And their desire to help softens what would otherwise be crystalline in me. I can care here due to what I can tap into and bring through on the page from there, and that is a very special, strange place to live. One you can’t have much company in, but if you taste it, you may end up adoring more than life itself here as a whole.
I wonder how other writers feel about the process, but only topically. Maybe more telepathically than anything. What I know is it’s the only help I really have to give. Embracing the higher humanities seen through them as we sift through the inhumane things beings here do and then call life or living…even though most of it is the antithesis of it.
At times this makes me overly empathetic, others emphatic over the depths of how much I do not give a fuck about things i technically should when it comes to mores and whatnots. The disdain can be as deep as the divine sometimes seen and felt in it all.
And in the end, the teeth may be the art.
The teeth are to rip the wounds open.
So they can bleed, finally be cleansed.
…like manuka honey on infections works better than any man made medicine.
Which explains their inherent sweetness, and their ability to turn to peroxide once ingested, to heal.
…It’s all very strange. Yet sweet.