It used to be easier. On nights like these, I’d remove my bracelet and allow this vortex in me to spin wildly out of control. And through polished cheeks and sometimes fresh lacerations not just on my soul, I’d have a magnum opus on this screen.
It’s not like that anymore. I have to fight very hard now and again. And the night after, I wonder if it was really me in my body. If I truly took a plunge and couldn’t resurface in the oil slick that is my brain. And I wear myself out just sitting up straight and I keep breathing. I pass out and float back to the top and everything from before seems like a dream.
I wonder sometimes at the possibility of memories sufficing and they do not. I wonder at the slight prospect that maybe I do not have to seek. Maybe I don’t have to fiend for that exhilarating moment when my nectar of life leaks from my own fabrication. Or the comfort of knowing this moment will stay with me forever. And it’s part of the process… a meticulous and planned out thing. Methodical. That search for the perfect tool. That excitement at finding the right place to hide both myself and my infliction. And the tending. That moment where I just close my eyes and I don’t think about a goddamn thing.
I’m trying to relive it now. Because it’s too much for this night. And an unsightly gash may cost weight in my piggy bank.
I think it’s beautiful, these oil spills. I enjoy letting it win out. Not in the beginning. At that moment all I can think of is how exhausting it is… How much I’ll regret it. But now? As I find dark parts of me that I thought had vanished… that I had extinguished… well, this part of me can’t help but smirk in triumph.
I always think I’ve gotten it… and I wonder if it is supposed to be there. Yin and yang right?
Plus… weren’t all the greatest minds a little crazy?
