Catharsis.

"There's only so much bending it can do."

I've been hiding from the truth
I've been battered, been broken, been buried now I'm death proof.

Jack's Mannequin is speaking to me, better than ever before.
I miss this.

I missed feeling the urge to write.
The urge to spew words down, the urge to have volumes and volumes written down, regardless of how good or bad they are.

It's just...
That urge itself. I missed it.

I don't even remember the trade-off anymore.
I mean, it was obvious, when I lost it. It's not so clear now, though.

Write, write, write.

I'm even starting my story, for once. The one that has been on the back burner for years. Maybe even close to a decade. I can't even remember the last time I actually needed to write a story. A story.

At least three years now. Maybe longer. Probably longer.

Painful realizations are hard to swallow. Hard to accept. Hard to face down.

But it's not as if it frees you. Maybe sometime in the future. But not while it's there.

The creativity is flowing. Well, beginning its trickle. I can start seeing the shapes and forms of half-envisioned poems. The stirrings of imagination, the breath of reanimation of my creative shadow, all of it starting to rouse.

I was convinced that it was dead. Or in a coma, at least. I guess, all this time, it was really just hibernating.

My confidence is in crisis mode,
Well your fingertips they know the code.

And frankly, I'm scared.

Salut,
~J