I have decided to write. No calling, not this time. I haven’t really gotten to it, nothing comes to me anymore, and I think it really comes down to the lack of you. The need to go back to being my own muse, to start over, to be reborn even in my art – it’s draining, I’m too busy picking up these same broken pieces in every corner of every room. “Look alive! Put in the work!”. Leaving you took a lot out of me. Writing got demoted in my list of priorities, I suppose it was the only piece of emotion I could afford to neglect. But, once again, I’m here and the pen can’t keep up – it’s actually quite annoying. Always the writer, and, apparently, not the best muse.
Time and again, I speak about how often I die. My many deaths, my many rebirths. The light goes out, fading, slowly but surely, until all that is left is burnt down forest of what once was. There is, of course, the metaphorical horse, and I must get back on it, but first I must gain its trust, it’s a delicate process. This time is different. To be honest, it has been different for a while, maybe even a couple of years. But this time, well, to put it simply and honestly, life hasn’t just killed me, but it has also broken my heavy heart. Put a knife right through it, and I suppose I’ll tell you how it’s going.
I used to become the fire that burned me, now my steps leave a trail of ashes. As I said, I am not the girl who became that fire, and I haven’t been her for a long time. I guess you could say that life got to me. Battered me until, finally, it made me weak. There is no horse. There are only my own feet, blistered and oozing. I stitch my limbs back together, one stitch at a time, it takes ages. I step slowly, as to not fall apart all over again. I’m fine, though. I’ll be fine, definitely. Yes, surely, I’m alright. I’m fine, believe me, I’m good. I’M COMPLETELY FINE, THANKS FOR ASKING! I am trying to find that girl again.
unpleasant conversations 