Shapeless, bruised skin. Dejected hearts, burning brightly once more. I want nothing to do with love because love is cheap. It’s second hand, riddled with contradictions and hypocrisy. Love is selfish when it should be selfless. Writing gives me all the affection I need. It gives me intimacy, and it gives me magic. Away from empty words and broken pledges, writing makes me feel at one with myself. My dream is to write for the rest of my life. I don’t have desires for anything else. I want to express myself and enjoy the passage of discovery it brings. Expression. Giving meaning to feelings. I want to create a legacy. To carve myself into people’s hearts with the ideas that spark behind my eyes. Love brings nothing but trouble. With writing, I am truthful. With lovers, there’s nothing but closed doors, appearances, and the creeping sense of never being good enough. I don’t even want to fuck. For the time being, I’m quite prepared to carry on using my right hand. Physicality. Recycled, always. The same old flesh passing from lover to lover. Stained with someone else’s fluid and dreams. Stale, like bedsheets and cigarettes. All those tired mouths. All those broken promises. Give me something else, anything. Every face the same. Every heart doomed to wander. Romance is nice, but it never lasts. There’s magic to begin with, but then you have to grow up and become like every other fucker out there. Good jobs, holidays. Big homes. I want none of this. I want to struggle. To live close to the brink of giving up, for I need to stop myself from disappearing into the oblivion of what others call success. To me, success is becoming a writer others need to read; inspiring the damned through righteous acts of creation. It’s stepping outside of society and treading a different path. No matter how long, or how much it takes, I’ll get what I want. It’s the only thing that interests me. I want to wake up midday with a hangover for the rest of my life. I want to spend my days walking through fields and woodland and my nights writing, drinking, and giving birth to stories. Give me isolation. Blanket me in solitude. I am an artist, and this is what I require. If I had a million in the bank, I’d rent myself a modest apartment with a big bath. That’s all. Fitting in doesn’t concern me. Belief in what I’m capable of, that’s all that matters. Others only ever bring you down. They doubt your intentions and pollute you with their apprehension. They don’t want you to take risks because they’re scared. Scared of doing something different. If it means that much, you’ll risk everything. If you’re for real, nothing will stop you from going out on a limb. Nothing at all.
Categories: On Writing