Of the waning of my song

Hello, all. Not feeling too hot at the moment. I really can’t handle pressure very well, especially of the self-induced kind. Working on it… but still a work in progress. 
I was meant to continue last time’s series about Teen Wolf this patriotic Friday (Happy 67th Birthday, India!), but… just the thought is making me choke, in all honesty. So here’s today’s offering. This is what I wrote the other day, when I was feeling so terrible and worthless that I just couldn’t stand not writing something, purging in some way. I simply wrote whatever came into my head: they call it free writing, I believe. Have tried it a couple of other times, will put them up here if you guys like this. Chin-chin.
I just want to write. I feel… starved. Lost. Restless. Afloat. My heart twists and turns. I can’t feel. All stuck there on the threshold of release. Love. Crying. Death. Joy in its fullness. Company. Aloneness. Me. I … can’t… get in touch with me. Paper crammed constantly down my throat. I wish to unlearn.
I wish to talk about: Kolkata in her capricious gossamer. Love in its spiritual loveliness. Love at its most guttural. Writing at its most barren. Emotions in their moments of clarity and in their most jumbled and thorny steel. What it means to be stuffed and screwed shut.
I want to write in a gush. I feel pregnant, swollen. I feel throbbing liquid fire. I feel stomach and cords in knots.
I want to feel wildly. In every pore and frayed muscle. I want to stretch my nerves until they shriek for mercy in the vigorousness of feeling.
I want to force out the fear through the perforated skin, oozing black goo. I want to let go and in a rush of pulsing pink energy of creation burn through the rotten flakes, the clogging bits. And flow. And flow in a cascade of shimmers over the cliffs, a stream of silver through the air. I want to fling myself into the abyss and submerge in the closing depths and never resurface.
I want to drown and feel the water burning through my nose, in my lungs, in my stomach, cleansing, drowning, bloating me free.
I want to feel poetry again.
I want to feel it in my skin, in my arms, in my fingertips tensing around the pen, in my cavernous empty mind, in my choked plump heart, in my visceral primitive love. I want to put the world in my song. I want to fashion the universe with my letters. Cosmic spatters of glittering thoughts in black ink. I want to scar white pages with the ink of my blood, the strings of my veins, with the tearing nib and pain. I want to purge all that torments me, writhing in the forests at the back of the back of my mind- all the broiling tornadoes I bear around. I want to SCREAM.
I want to scream from mountain tops: I EXIST! NOTICE ME! I want to scream from every corner of every valley of every dale: I EXIST! REMEMBER ME! Look at all the universes bristling in my skull, look at all the mirrors I trap me in, look at all the stars scattered in my veils and all the nebulae muscling their way to the boiling black surface! Look at all that I pine to find in my pinwheeling mind! I want to stretch my cut out arms against the dumb sunset and scream unashamedly, unworriedly, madly, gloriously, until my throat is raw with bleeding: look at me!

It cuts through my brain, my heart, my being, hacking me apart and I want to stop it; to push against the spinning blades; I want to find the Troubadour again! Oh Troubadour, Troubadour, where are you? Where have you gone? I pine for you, overfed swine, I wait for the slaughter that never comes. Your cruel love is more to me than any earthly love can mean. Come back, come back, for I am a skeleton with scorpions imprisoned, I am nothing, I am nothing! Can’t you hear the echoes hopelessly bounding around? I am nothing! The sun is gone, and I am nothing! Can a hollow gyre turn in spiralling madness, red-glowing rattling hot, and not collapse on the brink of collapse? It is crashing in me! The ocean heaves and churns! Troubadour, turn back! Spare a thought for this soul, this lover who screams for you! Oh, Troubadour, turn back!
What did you think? Too pretentious? Very whiny? Have you ever tried free-writing before? Did it help get rid of writer’s block for you, or did you find it even harder to come up with ideas? Let me know in the comments, and we can all help pull each other out of the abyss together. See you around next Friday, when I’ll really truthfully absolutely make a proper lupine post!
(I also love you v v much. Muah. ) 

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