I want to be free again. Back to when I didn’t know shit about the rules. When there was nothing hanging over my head, breathing down my back–
no, not good enough.
When the only voice in my head was a ceaseless babbling telling me stories on end, nudging me, reminding me of that certain itch at the pads of my fingers to tell of the things overflowing inside me.
Because now the only voice I hear, even as I’m trying to write this, keeps my fingers poised for one key. Backspace. Clack clack clack, backspace. Like an editor trapping me inside a cubicle, telling me to write, for the love of god write. And I do; I try as hard as I could but it does nothing but–
oh, that’s horrible.
are you even thinking straight?
okay, that is just plain–
This voice, it has grown cold, cynical, jaded. It does not trust me anymore. It doesn’t wish to share me tales it excitedly whispered to me. After all, why would it? I have failed it too many times in uneven childish scrawls, in naive blind strokes, in arrogant measured angles.
mistakes, all of it!
see how you’ve fucked me, yourself!
look at that trash!
I have failed it and it takes all of me not to burn the pages I once lovingly spilled my thoughts over.
Still I want my freedom. Not for the voice to cease into radio silence, as such would break me, but for it to loosen its grips on the both of us, for it to scream and to let me splatter ink into words.
I never hated it, never wished it gone, because it keeps me wanting. And to want is to be me.
ink in iv drips 