I have been gathering emotions, incapable of writing them down on paper, virtual paper. I don’t use paper anymore.
It’s a sad state, as my imagination has always been overactive and gigantic, I am forced to live under the spell of the things I want to do, but can’t seem to, a blob of possibilities that surrounds me, mocking me.
I quickly dig deeper into my default way of living: the hermit life, a path that helps me explore the most hidden truths of life, as I am almost devoid of human contact, except for my partner, who’s not pleased with my new grown beard of wisdom.
My inner unrest becomes such, that I turn to desperate actions that have nothing to do with how I’d like to express myself. The first is to eat my emotions.
I run around the house, holding in my hands the tangible manifestation of my pain, while I scream in desperation, because I am my own worst enemy, my executioner… through sugary foods.
I also use music and intense, ardent, singing, to unleash the inner demons. You can’t sing in any other way, you have to pour your soul through your throat, specially, if it’s metal singing.
But, somehow, it’s not enough. My emotions still need a better method of expression.
That’s when I find myself naked, hitting a punching bag, with a message written on it that truly awakens my anger.
As I see my partner staring at me lovingly, I understand, I need to do better than this.
And so, I write.
And the blob of emotions subsides.