Few addictions in my life have proved healthy for my sanity. Yet, here I stand, ready to give it up, and declare the unworthy addictions a throne of malicious power over my life. My mind races, in the evening, raising memorized images of pages graced with the right words. The words, so effortlessly placed upon the page by my predecessors, by those who have achieved and won the race I've been running for quite awhile now. Yet instead of digesting into my system, the words declare war on me, tormenting my brain and fashioning themselves into dirty mistresses, cheating on each other and spitting in my face. They say I'll never become them. They say the competition is fruitless. They say all my life has been a competition, and alas, that is all it will ever amount to, albeit I will never win.
I have forgotten, it seems, how to declare a statement onto a page. After the analysis of life has produced a decent amount of prose in my mind, on the drive home from one of life's adventures, I have tried to translate the waves of words from brain to finger, from finger to pen or keyboard. It proves futile. I am hopeless.
Bury me alive if I no longer can write. Bury me in my sorrows. Bury me in my misadventures. I will dig my own grave if I cannot relapse. I am no longer lost in my thoughts, my thoughts are lost in me. I am going to burn in the flames of a lost dream.
I like to write; point blank. This is a little piece of me that I get to share with the rest of the world, and hey, you know, maybe you'll appreciate it, maybe it'll do nothing for you. But my writing exists, and that's enough for me.
© 2019 Silvia Iorio. All rights reserved.