I wanted to post this a while back, but better late than never. It was up to that point the most straight-forward piece I had written, and it actually explains my writing towards the end. After finishing it, I later found it to be one of my favorites. I know it's long, but if you're generous enough with your time, I'd appreciate comments. First paragraph might be a tad awkward. I should've just left it out in this post, but oh well. Here it is in it's entirety.
...I sometimes sit, huddled in a corner, somewhere along the dark and desolate corners of my tormented mind. My mind is the basement, settled in the house that is my existence - Cold, hard, always filled to the ceiling with the essentials, Accompanied with the occasional excess and smut, stuffed in a box, Sealed with what's left of a conscience. I sit in this basement, Hearing the steady and slow drip from a leaky faucet. Every droplet, A thought. Constant drips, every second, every other second - It cannot be helped. Sometimes the droplets are whole, yet they slowly fall and make impact, dispersing and losing it's tact, form, and meaning. Yet it lies, inanimate, neutral and useless till another of it's kind joins it - And then another, and another, and so on. A small stream then forms, and many of what was lost is now in conjunction with something with texture, meaning, significance - A counter reflecton of it's holder. The faucet leaks, for it is in constant use - with water rushing through, leaving puddles of thoughts, theory, reflection, concept, notion, foundation of necessity. The water, the thoughts, soak up the boxes, leaving my mind dank with demented cogitation. And I sit...watching, hearing water running through or slowly and steadily dripping.
Usually I take a deep breath and sigh, feeling the cold air form into a dissipating cloud. I lean my head back, and let the words, the emotions, rush into me. Mind is now chaos-stricken, everything around me fluttering around, being tossed and swung about. I become the center of a tornado of thoughts. I am now the emotion, the psychosis, the despair, the dementation, yes, the center of thoughts, MY thoughts. THIS is who I am inside...I am an abyss, endlessly fed pain, sorrow, fear, all the evils around me. The hunger cannot be satiated, I can never be filled...I am only to grow more corrupted, vile, cold, twisted, a more purer evil. My heart is constantly heavy with pain, an open flame englufing it, and yet...I enjoy it...each painful pulse, each strike, a reminder of failure. I bask in it's contaminated warmth, as a smile slowly forms on my face.
'Abstract Writing' - As I choose to call it - A momentary outlet, among the few I choose to utilize. Usually it seeps out...the anger cannot be contained for long...I have constructed myself into a tool for my feelings...they can run me, Yet I am in constant conflict, fending it off with words - Flawless expression, perfect aid for patience...the key to winning the battle. Patience...it paves a way for contemplation, to work things out, for outside guidance...patience for inner healing, moral support, and decision before action. I believe I am weak, for I hold very little of the rare attribute... being overwhelmed with so much drives me to feverish action, both spontaneous and ignorant...yet thought and feeling transformed into something tangible, something that can be seen...it allows for negative discharge, freeing me from the emotion that chains me down. Each word, A key to unlocking my own self-awareness and content with life. Unfortunately, many of these keys fall out and find themselves lost, and as I fumble to fit each one , They lie among random spaces in the basement that is my mind, Until I pick each one up for a later abstract piece of self-expression I choose to label as 'Writing'.
And now, I find myself sitting once again in the same corner of my mind, allowing everything to go into me. Absorbing every piece of emotion, with tears streaming down faster than my thoughts, I manage to transform pain into words - Keys in hope of unlocking a better person inside. The lights in this basement are dim, But I can make out what I have just created. Another piece of myself, writing as abstract as the poetry of the mind, the soul. Part confession, part emotional release and expression, yet screwed up all over. I will continue to sit till light breaks through...