Ugh

I have not felt this emotionally or psychologically wretched in awhile.  I wrote a few stories and poems today and it's been almost literally painful, like spewing up organs.  I feel ill trying to create something, I feel ill if I sit doing nothing, feeding the cloud hanging over my head.  I know this is a temporary state, but that doesn't diminish its realness, its immediacy.  It begs to be purged, but I know there is no one.

Put more simply, it's a combination of fatigue and memories that came together at just the perfect (worst?) time, and it's actually quite inspirational.  It actually feels good, in a masturbatory kind of way, to get these feelings off my chest as naturally and fluidly (as opposed to skillfully) as possible.

I've also realized something: I've come to genuinely and fully accept these states.  This is massive progress for me.  Maybe a decade ago I would have fought tooth and nail to exorcise this state from my self, now I'm embracing it, allowing it.  This is me, this is my dark.  I don't want to fight it any more, I want to use it.  I want to turn this dark into light.  The most beautiful possibility would be for my dark to become someone else's light someday.  If I could do that, I could die happily.

I know I'm writing in a disorganized way.  I am frantic with the urge to write, to bloodlet, right now.  I don't care if it's perfect.  Perfect will drive me crazy right now.  I've fought perfection almost my whole life, and with every word, every form of expression I allow myself to appear on the screen I feel myself fewer and fewer inches away from its complete defeat, and it feels great.  This is why I am existing.