The ink from this pen draws out the deadly infection that festers in me. As a poultice is placed on a snake bite to draw the venom out of the blood, the pen grabs and pulls out all of the ugly and spills it out on to the blank page. My canvas.
It is my catharsis, my own form of homeopathy. It is amoxicillin for the soul.
When my heart is heavy, my fingers ache to roll a pen between them. Like a sleep-deprived man craves the quiet of night, or a crying child longs for the hushing and cooing of his mother. Like the charcoal that's administered to a patient who has guzzled a bottle of pills, my heart whispers to me that all I need to be well is to write. Words are the agent that purge my soul of impurities.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
― Ernest Hemingway
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
― Maya Angelou
No comments:
Post a Comment