i used to write.

a common theme in my therapy sessions is that i desperately miss creation.

an attempt

well, before that it was that i desperately thirst to be interesting. it finally dawned on me that these desires are connected, and it's possible i have them backwards. i think interesting people create, and so i hope that creating will make me interesting. the problem is, i am not interesting, and so i have nothing to create. i sit down to paint and filling a canvas with colors only fills me with emptiness, like it echoes. i sketch and it could be like that quill in harry potter that uses your blood as ink, but not in the sense that it comes from me. only in the sense that it leaves me wounded. writing is the hardest thing to bullshit, because words all mean something. with paint or pencil i can do whatever nonsense non-representational abstract thing i'm physically capable of producing. but words all represent, by design.

it used to be that shit would just come to me. i always think of the moment i entered AD's old room that one morning, her parents being out of town and we having been degenerates the night before, and the smoke hit my senses just a minute before the words did. the air is thick with stale smoke from cigarettes, hanging stagnant in closed quarters. it became about KW, and quasi-fictionalized, as it always did, but it started as just pretty, true words.

sometimes to get a handle on what i want to say in therapy, i write in my journal. i say sometimes, but really that's much too generous. it's a rarity. but i have done it, and in lieu of being able to say anything better in the moment, i've read my therapist a passage. i remember him saying "wow, i didn't know you were actually good at it!" so he's redoubled his efforts to encourage me to start again. just by writing anything. i couldn't seem to keep up with journaling, because time is a strange trip and happens so fast. i used to blog, back when i used to write. so i'm going to try that again. and before blogging it was those letters, when i'd write to people and just keep it in the back of my school notebook forevermore. sometimes i'd stumble onto beauty and be able to rework it into something.

that was always the best, most fulfilling feeling for me. better than any high, more satisfying than sex. rereading words i wrote and liking them. something of a tinge of pain, but that satisfying pain, something like when you'd lose a tooth and keep rubbing your tongue over the tender spot. when it hurts, but in a way you control.

i just have nothing to say, despite all my rambling.

i'm too young for all my poetry to be behind me.