Day 21: Welcome to the order of the tortured artist

I woke up this morning longing for you.Why this particular morning? I really couldnt tell you. All i know is that as i lay there, the sun pouring in through the paper thin curtains, every fibre in my body craved for you. Craved to touch you, craved to taste you, craved to smell you, (sigh) craved to love you...And then came the knock on the door accompanied by a voice calling my name and in that instant, it all disappeared.



Distractions.We all need them. without them i think we would all run mad. I know thats whats keeping me from going insane. from pulling my hair out. From staying in bed all day. Distractions are a blessing. Especially the pretty ones. But that being said, sometimes i loathe them. Not often but often enough. They keep me from feeling...from feeling real...from feeling anything at all. and yet its when i'm feeling down, when i'm feeling shaken, when i'm feeling overwhelmed that i do my best writing. When things become so much that i need to bleed it out. From heart...to wrist...to pen.
"Depressed is when you write best." someone once told me. and they were right. and so, unwittingly, i came up with a system. Everytime i wanted to write something worth while, something worth reading, i would closet myself away. strip myself bare, debase myself, go hunting for shadows, captured and caged slivers of darkness; picking at scabs, slitting open old wounds, ripping off plasters and letting myself bleed...

Welcome to the order of the tortured artist.



Why torture yourself? I think, as i stare out the window. the curtains are so thin that theres no need to open them. They waver, like a mirage, at the slightest hint of a breeze. I can hear the wind rustle through the trees and watch as a single leaf, old, past its prime, is torn from its mother, from the nest of its brothers and drifts lazily, alone, to the ground.The sound of CNN; business news, can be heard from the following room. The scrape of plates as the table is set for breakfast.
Why torture myslef? I repeat, slipping on my slippers.
because it makes for some pretty good reading.
I smile but its small, ironic.
But not only that,the smile disappears,
I dont want to forget.
I dont want to forget apples or vanilla body spray or cherry flavoured chapstick. Or sensual massages in the sitting room or getting drunk off ours asses and making out in public.
I dont want to forget the first time she said she loved me and i didnt know what to say or sleeping on her floor because it was alot more comfortable than sleeping on her nightmare of a bed.
I dont want to forget chasing her around the living room, completely unaware of how naked we were or making love right after showering defeating the whole purpose of showering in the first place.
I want to remember the good times: new years eve, my birthday, the day we first met...AND the not so ggod times: January 3rd, valentines day and every fight, every argument, everytime i made her cry and everytime she made me want to die.
even if its torture...even if it hurts. and not because i'm presumptuous enough to consider myself some sort of artist. (although one day i hope that i will be able to) but because they are a part of me. They are my scars. they are my legacy. but most of all...they make me...me.