[In my ears: In The End, Black Veil Brides]

I think I can no longer not pursue this.  Double negative on purpose. I’m in love with my own scrawl and it brings me just too much joy.

It’s a lot like becoming a vegetarian, and quitting those damn sexy cigarettes and finally, to myself mostly (I don’t like advertising because I’m a coward), resolutely defining myself as a feminist.

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I don’t have a choice, it’s an inescapable propulsion that is largely beyond me. I guess that’s God. Happy to “not have a choice” because left to my own devices I’d live in a hole and go nowhere.And I’ve got a great hole (ew). It’s dank and dark and deep a there’s hardly room to sit but I know every single dirty inch and its comforting in its steadfast familiarity, my constant companion for like twenty-plus years. Its been kind enough to hide me from the world above that is full of who the fucking fuck knows. You people are terrifying.

Yes, I’m entirely too into alliteration. Someday I will hopefully have a editor who is an all around phenomenal human being who will be like – Lorali, get a grip – and I’ll listen because I’m learning how to accept help from others and benefit from other people’s experience, wisdom and expertise, professionally or freely given. For the time being, its just too much fun.

The choice I do have is to have faith in the design behind the direction and not fight against that which would free me from remaining a repressed, soul sick artist. I’ve been having wet dreams of properly putting pen to paper my entire damn life. Tho, I feel like grappling with words and choosing to nurture a headspace that skews the world into a place beyond the realm of the literal makes me a little crazy. Barely perceptible, but there. Then again, I associate passion and artistic inspiration and daring to dream big dreams with the cusp of total psychosis. But it’s a beautiful way to exist. Like living with gratitude – How many ways can I love the world today? (a shit ton of ways) Writing – how many different ways could I tell the story of waking to the bus stop in the morning? (saying hello to monarchs), or dinner (my fraught relationship with hummus), or trying to sleep (draw out the process of being pulled under as long as possible because where my mind delves in-between consciousness and slumber hits like a drug).  Much less falling in love. Much less hunger, despair and salvation.

There is this sinister link between madness and the compulsion to create. Not every artist is mentally ill and not every mentally ill person is an artist but there is a correlation. To be clear: “Crazy” is pretty damn relative and I think the “sane” moniker is tossed around far to liberally as of late. A lot of the internet pretends to know what its talking about – that there is no connection but seriously, have you ever been manic? You are on fire, baby! Everything is connected and everything is bursting with meaning and the ideas and words flow like exceptionally fine tasting water. I’d say wine, but I’m sober, so no. Shit, I’m a little concerned now because I’ve been writing all damn day. Mother fucking poetry! I’m so pissed – poetry isn’t lucrative. Goddammit. Whatever. Right now I’m hot and thirsty and really need to pee but I’m putting the needs of my body to the side in favor of something apparently more important – writing some words. How long are blog posts supposed to be? I’m sure there is a statistically optimal word count but I’m losing my blogging virginity here so give me a fucking break.

In conclusion: I now have to identify as an aspiring writer. Tho I write, I’m writing right now so I AM a writer, but you know… published. Accolades. To that end, rerouting my college education towards a creative writing BA. I’m a bipolar alcoholic which, let me tell you, is just delightful. I also hate men and don’t shave my legs. I have broken up with that hole in the ground but we still fuck fairly regularly (ew). I quit smoking and eating meat just over a year ago. Not because I decided to – it just happened. That’s called God, and the more I’m tapped in to her/it/him the better. And I think life is unfair because if a “normal” person writes up a storm and is bleeding creativity its called divine inspiration, but for me, well, it could be that too, but its also a big scary red flag that I might be in the early stages of losing my bloody mind. And the last time I was in a mental hospital I was stuck there a whole damn month and I got lice. LICE.

*images not my own

 

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