I have healed. I breathe hope and stubbornness and will and i will and i will and i have hope.
i am healing.
but i dared not post such truths as written below until until until there was a half-seen glimmer barely real of hope.
i have it now. IN
i wrote this… before i blooded my gums with hope -
Hel. Where a vast ship is eternally clicking into existence incrementally flicked broken tiny human fingernails are torn from its denizens for hull, sail, wheelhouse, tiller nails and nails the bloodless hands hooks beside Hel Skywalker Loki daughter, her limbs rotting even as she smiles.
i have been forced to stop painting, give up my artistic career after spending 2 years not being able to paint because i was in agony, refusing to admit it and tearing myself to pieces in psychological self-savaging passionate loathing. i have learned, (mostly) to NOT paint unless i have a good day – these appear mysteriously every month or fortnight varying from a few hours to a few days.
Do you live in this manner. In a hell. A burning bloody hell.
it… there is a terrible, inevitable mass pushing me forward in time. it is some colossal blind thing at my back, behind my eyes, aching underneath my teeth.
it is inexorable, irresistible, mindless, deadly and horrific.
it is eating my life.
the years do not even stir the scorched nerves in my fingers as they drift through their grasping, wretched reach. i am in pain continuously and yet though each moment makes me writhe and turns my hands into claws… though often every minute is a horror of distance from second to second. vast, utterly unreachable.
and as slow as time can move for us, perhaps; a wyrm of terrible, irrevocable power nudging us forward, each breath closer to death.
but time;… in this manner, perhaps because of the invariable similitude of my tiny world and my ugly, pale and powerless life – in this manner it has accelerated beyond any conception of my imagination.
and i am… kind of CREATIVE.
this last sentence, statement, pre-ponderous exclamation, is complete bullshit.
every waking moment caught and gripped with the hard, black iron of their will.
I don’t mean that I am that good. I mean that i lived to make for 12 years.
i was in hospital, a mental ward, getting shock treatment in 2004. i painted and drew for at least 10 hours every day.
i have painted… written… i have written such songs such lyrics… and painted… whilst, well in a living carnivale freak show extremity. mad. beautiful. charming.
helping people as they so often exploited me, and stripped my life from me…
but i had so so so much MORE life racing through me than everyone else!
and the despair that worsened every year and tried to kill me and took my hands away from me and used them to cut my throat.
even in the coal-black abyss of despair…. i fucking WORKED. i NEVER STOPPED.
i do not remember but in the hospital when i was getting the shock treatment (ECT), my beautiful friend Kirsty told me that the dressing I wore over the vicious tear in my neck was
i… don’t know i don’t know but i believe in my soul of unlikely souls that this is so…
i KNOW that it was less than 24 hours after bleeding out on my bathroom floor that i FORCED myself to pick my paints and shape the worlds.
in my head in my heart in my HEART IN MY HEART!!!
My skin boils licked by such fire such heat a cauldron a pyre an inferno and you must see I know you must because you have lived so long writhing in the darkness bolted, manacled to the vile trap that is your body.
You understand… yes…. and that you do, that you are like me. That you are so much after the thief of time and life plundered your world and flayed you like me our skins hung together across the world our fleshless agony, the AGONY each of ours unique as a sentence writ uniquely to torture one such as you. One such as i.
The flames… you must see I know you do I have hurt my fingers on keys spelling this before but it is this it is true it is horror it will not end it will NOT end
You must see… I can never, ever put the fire out! .
my hands are seared cauterised stumps my mouth solid bone. My mind – it isn’t about strength or passion.
When I am – as I pleasantly transcribe it to my family – SORE. I paint
And it is this that bleeds me white. The time hurtling through my invisible wounds. The cripple… I have always been crippled, and a freak such a freak but this is tragedy it is abhorrent it is so.
It is so sad.
It breaks my heart.
I weep for myself as I have never done in madness.
I do. Forgive me. It is a horrific palsy parody of living and I pity myself for the hope that I held and for the fool I was and for the terror of pain that flays me in scalding flickering sheaves of blades.