The bearer of bad news is just full of ideas, none of which ever come to light. The ideas are wild and uncontrollable, yet they are written down listlessly because something is missing. The ideas become nothing but words. There is no life to them.
A daydream is as intangible as air; it simply exists in waves of thought that only the thinker is aware of. It needs a spark to turn it into something real.
Passion, on the other hand, is fiery. And I don’t mean love. I might not even mean lust. I mean passion, I mean intensity and obsession and fixation and drive. I mean something that provides momentum. I mean the thing that keeps you awake at night and gets you out of bed in the morning. I mean the thing that gives you energy via unnatural means when it’s taken away your hunger for food. It makes you cry because it burns your fucking soul. And fucking hell… could you imagine feeling any more alive than that? It’s sublime. I’m beatific.
Imagine being caught in the glare of a sunbeam that provides everything you ever need. All you have to do in return is capture the essence of that sunbeam in the perfect words.
It’s (almost) quite impossible. But you (have to) keep trying.
I catch fire.
But they say this is bad. Obsession is unhealthy. Living in a fantasy world is dangerous. The passion of the personality disordered.
So, of course, I enjoy it. Yes, it’s exhausting. Yes, it’s hard. But honestly, all of this ‘life is short, you should smile more’ bollocks is just ridiculous. What life do you want me to live? This isn’t going to change. This is me, it’s who I am. It’s all I’ve ever been. It’s all I can be. And it works. It’s just a shame that everyone else hates it and wants me to be different.
Oh, you love how I write…
Oh, you wish I didn’t feel this way…
Why can’t they see…?
I enjoy being manic and obsessed. It’s heaven and hell; it’s moments of bliss before the overdose heart attack kicks in. And I can handle it, I swear.
But it scares people.
I scare people.
Do you have any idea how that feels?
I don’t want any of it to be real, because then I can’t control it. I can only control myself and my reactions. But I understand reality and where it is. Please understand why I choose to ignore it.
Once upon a time, I was passionate.
Then I went to a doctor and they told me I was emotionally unstable.
They are trying to fix me.
I’m losing myself.
I am all over the place.
I need that
passion emotional instability in order to write. And I haven’t found it in reality in such a perfectly crazily beautiful way. So I write it. And then the words themselves fuel the flames.
I have lost all momentum.
I am a daydream trapped inside a bottle.
Air and fire, removed – extinguished.
I want to set fire to the clouds and burn the grey sky hanging over us all. Maybe then you’ll realise that this is just how life needs to be.
I’m no martyr, though.
I’m the luckiest.
I just wish I could say what you wanted to hear.