Hello everyone. I’m sitting here, after having gotten out of the shower, and I’m about to go and get a haircut. I will drive through the streets that by day are filled and at night are lonesome and empty. I feel right now like I am the daytime streets, slowly dying. I have put on about 20lbs since I began a deep recluse into my world, escaping your world of the living. But after today, a photo of me that I saw, my God, I have to get things under control. I love, love writing to you all, and whoever or wherever you all may be–I’m just letting you know in advance what I’m feeling, tentatively. I think that after Scribbles I may be slowing down a bit and taking a break, the best way that I can, but it’s never as simple as simply refusing cake. I feel like this blade is cutting away from and towards me. Hours and hours on end, hidden and tucked away deep inside my mind, my den, I am the rooster inside this pen, lonely without a hen, lonely without communication, desolate and departed, I sailed my ship away from the rest of “society,” before I could be thwarted, and that’s fine, but at the same time it isn’t fine, it’s fine, it isn’t fine, it’s fine, it isn’t fucking fine. And so you see, I need to grasp onto anything outside of me, a branch, a fallen tree, a dandelion seed, something that will help to validate me. No, this isn’t a cry or a plea, this isn’t me crying out to be seen, this is me trying to define me and my place in your existing “reality” because I’m not quite ready to throw away the key. So I will partially return to your realm of the living and somewhere in between the unseen and translations of being, I will restore some balance to this free falling turmoil inside of me. And this isn’t me giving up on writing, no this isn’t what I’m trying to say, or implying. This is just me saying that even though I am dead and still dying, there is a part of me that refuses to stop trying, and it would be selfish of me to impose my will against me, when it feels that there are things to it that I have been denying.
I think William Carlos Williams said it best when he said, “I think all writing is a disease. You can’t stop it.”