Crying Calligraphy Ink

My Devastation makes me Shakespeare.

There’s a certain music in sadness.

The sort of music that rings a certain bell in the nervous system. That bell is like an iPhone alarm, sets off a trauma response, shoots the nerves in your eyes out of bed - shakes the nerves in your hands like titanium plates shifting under earth.

It leads to you crying.

It leads to shaky hands.

It leads to immense, and intimately familiar devastation.

And I know that about myself, and I know that I write until I can’t feel my hand and the words on the page don’t make sense, and I have ink in my hair and for some reason, ink got in my eye and is now, spilling down my face while I cry. Then I pass out.

And when I wake up, I look back at my work, and it’s art. It’s weirdly intimate - so much so that it’s almost inappropriate. However, it’s art, and it’s good, and it came from me, which makes it better. And I can’t write like that when I’m smiling. I can’t write like that when I see the sun. Do I have to be somewhat grotesquely devastated to write? I don’t think so. I can write just from pensiveness alone. Though I will say, there is always a sort of melancholic feel permeating around me while I spill ink on pages, or type furiously into a keyboard.

It’s just something I noticed.

My best works come through devastation. And lately, I only really write when I am, devastated. I love writing, it’s the best thing that I have ever had the privilege of doing. Though lately I’ve been feeling as though devastation is something I love as well.

It’s just something I noticed.

It’s just something I’ve began to feel a “home” in. It feels maybe

a bit too familiar, and a bit too cozy. I’ve been thinking maybe I should try writing in the sun.

Though, old habits die hard, and my writing habits die harder,

I digress.