dirt

I haven't been writing as much. I miss it. I actually got up the guts to read through a story I had started working on a while ago. I had tried to continue writing it but I couldn't. Criticism is so stunting.

It's funny how much richer life seems when there is some mud and blood mixed in between the moving frames. The grit, the skinned knees...how strange that sometimes I miss that rawness.

Although I miss my depth and passion, I do not miss the irrationality and madness. What a strangely delicious hell it was back then. How everything swirled and dove and turned through me...what a horrible beauty. But now the blood on my hands (that was my own) is no longer there. Just lumpy scars and dream-like memories.

But oh, how the darkness made everything else sparkle. I miss the intensity and the way I knew myself so deeply.

Now stumbling over my ghosts and stalling at my shadows is frustrating and cold. I used to hide behind my hot blooded vision, but now I just stand there and stubbornly freeze. There is nothing inner to comfort me. Though, frankly, that is good.

Forgive me for the confusion I caused. Forgive me the mess I made.