Annar in the Inbetweens

I only want to share heavily edited pieces on here. No more rampaging carelessly with words, no more creating white noise and unnecessary friction in the world of art or literature—or any world at all. This is a craft and excellent pieces are edited a thousand times; each word and space and punctuation is intelligently thought through—I’ve created enough, but all of it noise. The internet has made us careless; remember, you are responsible for everything you put out into the world—that statement is limited at nothing.

I am human and I am a writer. These are the simplest realizations, I know—but we still manage to forget who we are and why we are here.

Thank you Wolfruns.

I have admired you all for so, so long.

It took me a long time to realize that the most beautiful people are the painfully humble ones with an exuberant artistic talent that lingers in their scent, in their silence, and exudes between every blink and gesture.

          I don’t really have anything to say in any poetic form. My ideas have kind of spread into the life I lead—not that I lead a good or great or flawless or decent life by any means. I still buy a slice of pizza on my way home sometimes, I still lie to poor people and tell them that I don’t have an change or time to listen to their stories; I never call my mom; I hold my breath to go to sleep; I try my best to read on the bus, but mostly I just stare out the large windows without blinking for 3 miles. I’ve missed all of my classes at least a few times—this morning my professor threatened to drop me if I missed just one more minute. I nodded my head and then walked to the bathroom and  cried. If only he knew that I have anxiety attacks most mornings before I leave my apartment, and sometimes I cry in the bathroom before class (‘cause I’m a pussy) ‘cause I have a sort of anxiety that is cured with pills that actually give me more anxiety ‘cause it destroys my ability to think and write and love—which pretty much means that I can either have a passionate, brilliant desire to live and die simultaneously or to walk around as an empty vessel, but be on time to shitty poetry classes—there’s other stuff, too.
             So, I live pretty flawed and pathetically, and the urge to write on every piece of paper, and every white space on the wall, and on my hands and on my wrists has began to tame itself. Since poetry flowed through me as a steady stream, I have fallen in love and stayed in love, I have left the police station, transferred schools, moved apartments, plummeted into a violent depression, euphoria, flushed all of my pills, stopped meeting with my psychiatrist, stopped talking to my therapist, ditched my mentor, and have achieved four months of what I believe is the first happy months of my life. Not “happy” happy, but like “aware of everything within and exterior of me, and I’m not losing my goddamn mind ‘cause of it”. So yeah, I feel like throwing up 90% of the time because of the anxiety, but I can wake up now, I can eat now, I can love now, I can think now. None of these things were achievable or comprehendible a year ago. I mean, I used to talk to the light above me in the shower, thinking it was God. I used to watch other people eat trying to figure out how they knew if they were hungry. I slept 2 hours a night for 5 months nonstop, for gods-sake. Love is the cure, food is the cure, sleep is the cure, music is the cure; enough of these things will change your life for the best. Poetry and music and literature are beautiful things that have not left me. I hear it, I feel it, I think about ‘em every moment of every day. And I am finally stable enough and sane enough and here enough to take it all in and do something with ‘em. 
          Anyway, I wrote this incase anyone was wondering where I was. I wasn’t anywhere special, or beautiful, or magical that I wasn’t at before; nothing, yet everything changed. All because someone has taught me how to love me (and you) enough to help me survive the terror of a mental illness that almost got the best of me. This post gives no justice, but I just wanted to say, “I’m back.”

This is me coming back.

These fits of melancholic despair often result in writing poetry or bingeing on classical music or writing orchestrations or sitting in the darkness, in the silence, and pretending that I am a world famous hornist or that anything I have ever written or thought or said means or meant anything at all—but they don’t. These fits of melancholic despair carry on an air of shame. I feel them, I act on them, I embrace them as a recluse, stepping away from everyone and everything and indulging. There I am sniffing creativity, letting it soak into my veins and spread, spread, spread. When I resurface to the “real world”, I feel like an impatient dog that just took a shit on the carpet, or a fifteen year old girl that just scarfed down two donuts for breakfast, or—like most of you—a secret smoker after you inhaled a pack, then unexpectedly ran into someone that you are expected to kiss. Guilt, guilt, guilt lingers like that stench, like that uneasy fullness, like that smoke in your hair. There comes shame with being an artist, with being dysfunctional, with being secretive and desperate and having a limited well of useless brilliance. These sad, desperate things we do in the middle of the night come with an air of guilt. I feel empty, and I have felt this way for a very, very long time. That last sentence has nothing and everything to do with what I just said.

“We are,” I said
among the ocean
that beats
to the rhythm of my frantic mind
              “unsteady and fluid and fading.”

blue lips touching; hands clutching hands

we will die right here,
together,
   but alone—
unsuspecting, uncertain, unloved.

We will die like this,
in darkness.