I don’t belong here

To understand the writer, you must become the writer and I don’t mean turning into someone that just willy nilly drops words down on a page, dons a smoking jacket and yaks about Joyce in a fake Cockney accent. Those aren’t writers, they are actors; the cocksuckers that think it’s romantic to be on the outside looking in. The ones that want to think their words matter in a world that imbibes the inane like some sort of orgasmic elixir. The writer knows that his words don’t matter that every day is a hellish struggle to get people to notice, to prove to himself and others that his life isn’t a huge fucking waste, that when he looks up through the grating and watches everyone above walking passed that the small guttural cries that are emitted by his words are worthy of just one of those passersby looking down even if in the end it was only to spit.

To be born with the soul of a writer is to be born flawed, to suffer a paper version of hell with REJECTION stamped in big red letters all over it. To realize that in all likelihood life will pass you the fuck by and you will give your best years to the bottle or whatever vice steers you clear of the edge. Just one step too close and your footing gives and before you know it you are lying on top of Hemingway and Poe and Thompson, their pens sticking through your vitals, their ink mixing with the last of your blood.

The writer searches for love through his words and this is of course foolish but inevitable in his evolution. No one will love him for his words; this much the writer will find to be true. The contrary is so. They will poke him with sharp sticks through the bars and jeer and brand him an outsider with a hot coat hanger and then they will drift away. At first relief will wash over the writer but then he will realize with no one to read his words that he doesn’t exist; only his empty cage will remain.

Perhaps there is one saving grace for the writer but I hesitate to mention it for it is an unlikely scenario and hope should not be spent entirely on it. I speak of a muse; a woman with LOVE tattoed on the small of her back. Between her long red flint nails she will hold the key that unlocks the desolate cage in which he exists but it is a sketchy proposition to trust all hope on one person, for after all you, the writer, are made of words and words are highly flammable and with one click of her flint red nails you will go up in flames and burn burn burn. .

Writers are all lost but we know exactly where we’re going. From the moment we are born we are all on the fast track to dying but for those that search for the words to explain this downwardly spiraling journey there is much more to life even if, in the end, it is all in our minds. I am running. I am tripping. Watch me fall…