So be it

There's nothing pretty about writing, its a parasitic, vile process. At least that's what my teachers taught me.

There's no relief in the end either, it's a constant haunting. A stomach ache turned acidic requiring surgery overseas. Where you find yourself in some pale blue painted room and the attendee has bad dandruff and smells like communist era cologne. I would know, trust me.

They have it all wrong on the television, they have us either living eccentric lives with perfect teeth and antique brooches or dying in the gutter with distended bellies and black livers.

What about the ones who make it out alive and live to write about it later?

What about the sleepers?

When I write I'm either pooping or I smell like a 5 day old pizza left out on top of the stove.

I'm madness. confident with a lowercase “c” because I'm always in battle with my ego. Is this too much? Am I too forward? Too sure of my own shit and history?

They had it all wrong.

What happens after the pupil has outgrown the teacher is complete anarchy, a systems failure, an existential fucking crisis. No one talks about this.

He wrote about the big SAD and I chased it. I ran after it hungry,

cough

cough

dying cough.

I fucking nearly died, for good, that 11th time

It wasn't until after the fires had nothing left to burn and flames licked the last version left of me that I finally realized… He was writing about a life only I knew how to live and he was the one who died chasing it.