Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Where Does it Come From?

It was recently asked of me "Mind if I ask exactly where you get your words and thoughts from? I know that may be a tough question, but the way I see it, you're as close to Emily Dickinson as the world is gonna get. And since we can't ask her anything . . .You're so beautifully dark. It's enlightening"

First and foremost, I must say this has got to be the nicest, best, sweetest, most wow-ing compliment I have ever received and I thank you completely for it, even if I do disagree.

But now to answer the question...

It isn't a question with a simple answer. In fact, I'm not certain at all of the answer. The darkness, the emptiness, the fears...they are all a part of me. They all have a home in the darkened halls of my mind. How did they get there? I do not know.

I have seen a lot in my life. Not as much as some, but more than I would wish on anyone, even those I most hate. I was abused in every way as a child; had abusive boyfriends; was raped. I have lost those I love and loved those I lost. I have learned that trust is rarer than love and more painful than death. I have learned so much, and the lesson most learned was never trust and never cry.

Perhaps it is these lessons which caused the dark rooms in my mind to be built. Cobwebs now cover the doorway, trapping anyone who tries to get too close. The blood of the innocent lays at my feet, staining the hardwood floors. It won't wash out you know. It'll never wash out.

How can wash away anything that has been pounded and beaten into being? How can you clean it, make it pure again? How can you turn it into something others would want to be around? You can't. It's tarnished. Ugly. Forever tainted.

But is this where the words come from? Is this from where all the pain spills over onto the paper? Or has it always been there? Was I perhaps born dark - possessed by the shadows that draw me in and leak out onto the canvas? Perhaps the words have simply always been there, and the stains of my past are simply that - stains. Perhaps I am the stain. A blemish on society, on this page, within these walls.

I am beginning to realize I cannot answer the question brought to me. I have tried, but I do not know the answer. My words, my thoughts, they just...are.

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