And as such, with each sip of wine and with each jam on the radio (read: Spotify) my mood changes.
Perhaps the mood is changing to protect myself, as I bounce from tab to tab, writing simultaneously about suicide and servitude and pop music and now, well, I don’t know what the fuck this is.
I realised tonight, that I am so goddam tired of carrying this story around with me.
That at last, I just need to birth these fucking words out of me.
There was a time when the words would bubble up inside of me, like indigestion.
Like a nausea, a sea sickness, that was lingering the background.
I would wait all day to release those words.
Sometimes scribbling a phrase, a metaphor, an overheard conversation onto a scrap of paper folded carefully into a small square, tucked into my bra for later. Later that night, as I took off my clothes and kicked off those fucking bastard shoes, the notes would flutter to the floor and I would at last have a chance to expand those words, and to give them a story.
Worshipping the Dick, and not the Dictionary.
Now, the words haunt me.
They taunt me from the edges of my vision, from the shadows in my dreams.
Many years ago, I learned that when I am in a relationship I wrote less. A lot less.
I thought that perhaps, it was my creative energy flowing in a different direction.
Worshipping the Dick, and not the Dictionary.
I thought, I’m in love. I’m happy. Writers are tortured, sad people. That’s not me. I am fufilled. I don’t need the words.
Recently, I have changed my theory. That the tortured, frustrated, confused writer is the real me and that when I am in a relationship, is when I compromise who I am, as I surrender a little bit of my identity, day by day, month by month, becoming the woman that I think He wants me to be.
And as my favourite Dick once said, there are Known Knowns, Known Unknowns and the Unknown Uknowns.
(For those interested, look into the Johari Window, which is something in psychology they teach you when they lock you up in the Madhouse).
Tonight I’m in the realm of Know Uknowns. All the things that I know that I don’t know, and that perhaps I never will.
KR
