[insert whatever f'in' title you want]

I wrote this while I was spiraling, but know that I am through it at this point.

Photo by Sydney Latham on Unsplash

Apologies in advance for this piece of self-indulgence.

The devil comes with gentle words as you see the world slipping. There are shudders that occur as though reality itself shifts, and his words would make sense, soothing, and calm.

But the devil only serves himself, and those words lead to a dangerous path of cold comfort and blood dripping, a slowly at first, but becoming more frequent.

The light moods are weighed down, by those words, those temptations. There is a reason why leeches aren’t a thing anymore, and bloodletting is not done by your primary care provider, and it isn’t the clean-up.

I feel the weight of the earth right now, as though I was standing in for Atlas, his coffee break too long. I feel broken, not undone, and I want to be home again, where home is not a physical location, but a state of love and mind.

I want those soft whispers to be replaced by the lips of another, and perhaps I don’t even know that person today, it is so hard to tell what my life is right now, but I have to believe she is out there.

For all the grace I have for others, finding it for myself is the task of Sisyphus, always trying to drain the lake of doubt with a sieve, dripped it over my feet as I try and remove it, so it soaks into my skin, and insipid curse.

I know this will change, next week I feel different and that people see words and may be concerned, but ultimately read the next piece as they scroll - and I want them too, this is as much getting it out of me as it is writing for consumption.

Perhaps they tire of watching the ups and downs of others, because I know it is just as tiring for the reader as it is for the writer, but that is the burden we carry as creatives walking the world together.

If you look around at the highly creative people you know, every fucking one of us struggles in some way, whether it be addiction, depression, mania, obsessiveness - we all carry a burden, and those are our crosses.

These troubles are what make us creative, they are what fuels us, what makes us different even as we are together. I know I am not alone; I am in a collective, but I am still isolated; I need someone here, someone to care for - and without that I am not complete.

So, my journey will continue, as I carry this load through the desert of my soul for a while longer, and hope that the sun that shines brings joy, and not burning me up, leaving me dry.

© Emma Steel