It’s not that I haven’t written lately. I’ve written, madly. It keeps me up at night. That and the, you know, nausea. And the fucking nightmares. I’ve written pages and pages. Know what I do when I’m done writing? I go out to the fire pit in the backyard and I burn every last word. Talk about catharsis. Or insanity. I’m not sure which. Could be a touch of both. I watch the fire rage (and by rage, I mean crackle; it’s a fire pit not an inferno) in to the night sky and stand just outside its reach, just close enough for the smoke to wind its way, menacingly, around my body and into my lungs as I inhale deeply.
This particular ritual usually takes place sometime around 3 or 4 in the morning. So I’m guessing my neighbors probably aren’t all that thrilled with me either. Twice I’ve had the fire department pay me a visit. I asked if it was illegal. No, they said, just a bit odd. Fair enough, Mr. Fireman. Color me eccentric.
Something happened a couple of nights ago that precipitated this…what? This…episode? This craziness? This jesus-christ-i-need-to-get-a-grip behavior. Something happened that triggered this mess. I was going to write it out here. I’ve written it out and burned it up, but I was going to write it out here. I was going to do that because sharing safely is what this is all about, right? And I’m deathly afraid it will, once and for all, consume me. That? Is not how I want to go out. I’ve fought too hard for that bullshit. Or maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. I’m really not sure anymore. Perspective is so lost on me right now.
So I was going to share it, let it go. Instead I let it go up in smoke with all the other words. It’s cool. The flames will keep me company tonight. They have their own story to tell. Sometimes it’s best to remain silent.