I stopped writing to repeat patterns of writers & left my ideas riddled in the ripples of a glass of bourbon. So gathered my burdens and residual issues somewhere near the bottom in the muck that I wallowed in. I stayed there until reeking of rotted wishes, the halitosis of such"should have, could have, one day will do" thoughts as the flies begin to congregate in my thought bubbles that once harbored bright ideas.
Vultures circle my will, laying on the concrete like a shadow whose puppeteer has not seen the changing lights. There is no sense of desperation here. No urge to rescind this curse or rebuke these demons. I am low.
Do you know anything about such saturated despair? Been inclined to heavy yourself to feel the pressure of being at the bottom of the pool resisting any inherent inclination to be lifted? Drowning in the bluest blue, no sight of the sun above, that's me. The ink never dries here and the windows reveal nothing. Do you know the place?
Not suicidal but so unclear on what living is that I don't know death by shadowy figure or cold, damp breath exuding from it's faceless stillness. The only thing for certain is that I must write my way out of this.