The heartache I’m feeling is unleashing my creative streak. The one I deny in myself. It seems I can only write when I’m on the edge. When I’m injured.
I need to recognise this in myself. I must be creative. I’m a good writer. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I was a writer for fucks sake, before I got swept along in the madness of my life. At 16 I was published in the biggest music mags in the world. When I was also injured. I need the pain like a rose needs the rain. Fuck!
I hope I don’t end up cutting off my ear so I can paint it.
I’m glad I know what helps me. I’m glad I’ve realised I must always create and not kill.
I want to be able to write when there is no hell. No self-loathing. No hatred of myself. I want to feel this energised about love and hope, not loss and eternal hell.
I write. That’s what I do best. That’s my calling.
I have another piece of my jigsaw finally. I’m on my way to knowing what I need to do to make me feel happy. And then by default those around me.
From this day on I am writer. I am me. Not an historical music drop out, not an IT guy, not a geek, and definitely not a landlord.
I am finally listening to all that I have not heard.