Walking in the Rain
To write how you feel you have to stop thinking. You have to fall down the rabbit hole and keep fucking crawling until your knees are muddy and scratched with blood and mud inside the blood. The rational hat is no use. The one which wants to form human sentences. Things spoken in a real world context. By explaining yourself you lose the thing. You return like a faithful broken-boned mutt to the phrases you’re socialised to say.
Put your face through a window, then rebuild it from scratch using polystyrene balls to fill in the bits you lost. Now speak. No don’t speak. Just write. Or paint, or hit some fucking bongos, whatever tickles your pickle. Don’t write to be understood. Write to be misunderstood. Write to let the freaky gobshite reading it look into the booze slops of their own brain matter and form a meaningful sentence. The meaningful sentence might be “This is fucking pretentious, quirky nonsense. This chick needs a good slap”.
You can’t be afraid to write. Be afraid to be misunderstood. Meaning belongs with the witness. If they want to peer at a pile of colourful sick on the pavement and decide what it means, so be it. If you’re so fucking scared just write it down and bury it six foot in dirt. It’s all you deserve. Or not. But friend, the worms are reading. Maybe even eating the fucking thing and then shitting it into fertiliser which will make some patch of goose grass grow a little greener, higher, and stickier.
If you write how you feel, it has a story. Even if you make shit sure no-one sees it. Rip it up and eat it. Let your insides digest ink and paper. Burn it and let the smoke stain the ceiling. If you write how you feel it has to be abstract. No culprits named, no hometown stated, no work politics, no lovesickness, no apathy, no addiction, no past reasons nor consequences. No childhood traumas, no demons faced, no nostalgia or bitter anxiety for the person you once were that you’re afraid you still are. Just the pissing rain trying to wash away the plaster stains on the concrete. Just the sea and the rhythm. The crash of waves or thunder or war. Just the sound of your guts daring you to do the wrong thing. Step out of line. Be foolish. Don’t have regrets. Own your mistakes. But please please please, for the love of a life less ordinary (one without the inevitable downward spiral into that pit where there is only blankness, despair, and pairs of red or green eyes peering from crack-addled-would-be-geniuses)… don’t let your mistakes own you. And write how you feel.