unavoidably deranged

Looking back, I can’t remember the moment when reality stopped working for me, in a way it seems like it never really did work.

All that I remember from my days of quiet isolation is a collection of thoughts that now seem to transcend into the ether, feelings that once ruled my days with great expectation now seem strange and unfamiliar to me. This is not my life you are seeing. This is someone else’s dismembered reality, replete with disturbing moments of sorrow and pain. Don’t misunderstand me, I am not a philosopher in any way, on the contrary, I am a man who is deeply attached to images and sounds.

For a long time now I’ve been wondering which way to go next. Wondering how to go on when I feel there is little alive inside of me. When the putrid remains of my once callow life remain but a shadow of distant days. Convinced that everything I feel and know and do is cold and dark and wrong. My ability to weave stories of expanding beauty, filled with everlasting moments of delight has been diminished. Diminished simply because the light which once lived inside my heart has almost been entirely extinguished. My hands no longer feel alive or eager, now they mostly just feel cold and tired.

And I can’t help to wonder what is the best way to pour out my heart on paper like I used to do so easily, and so readily. How can I write effortlessly, willingly and completely? Write as if blood itself was pouring down my arms, as if blood was the only ink that I had left in me, the only ink I would ever need.

The hardest part about writing is finding a purpose. It is so easy to jolt down words and make up sentences that seem to have a function, but it’s an entirely different thing to write something with meaning. Something that rings true, something that feels alive inside.

Sometimes I think that I have lost that.

Frank 9:33