It’s hard to communicate. It’s easy to escape. It’s even easier to rage aimlessly. I’m trying to be a good person, and it scarcely works. The only thing that’s reliable is therapy; I’ve reached the dreamed-of point where I can voluntarily invite madness into my head instead of hopelessly trying to stave it away. I miss the not-so-long-ago time when we shot the understanding of god – even though I don’t miss the despair of that time. I know that no matter what happens, I’ll be okay.
I am making my own destiny; I have become the captain. I feel like I’m re-learning how to live, all anew. Everything is strange and weird, but at least now I can answer why.
At least when I get stuck, I get to unstuck myself.
(She’s deadly afraid she’d “lose” it if things get good.)
– Can art just… leave you?
– No; but you can stop feeding it.
– How come? Feeding?
– Yes. Your talent feeds on whatever you give it. As long as life throws things at you: lovers, drama, trouble… you find inspiration. Get your life in perfect order, bam! inspiration gone. Trick is, you can feed it yourself.
– Isn’t this, like, a fraud?
– You have been thrown around aimlessly by the raging sea for so long you’ve become afraid of being a captain.
You can’t decide. Fueled by the pills, your life force, cheap alcohol, and random interpersonal encounters, you carry on. Sad is not an opposite of happy; dead is not an opposite of alive. They coexist. Whatever drugs get you running, they don’t replace something with something else. They add. This emotional concoction is barely bearable, but the drugs take care of that, too… mostly. The gnawing feeling catches up with you late at night. Coloring everything with panic, clenching your fists and your teeth, making you promise tomorrow will be different. Guess what: it won’t. You can’t fight your demons in the darkness, for they thrive on it. Reveal them in the daytime, though, and it’s all different: they get all the weaker… but scarier, too.
My head is full of such pictures; and of bright, searing light.
You don’t get to choose to be an ice witch. It’s brought upon you by life; by circumstances; by lovers. And once you get to be one, you get to freeze hearts, unconsciously. You pay the price. You divert all your energy towards something else. Sometimes it’s books, sometimes it’s art, sometimes it’s drink. Whatever you choose, you easily pay the ultimate price. You lose your friends, lose your past… sometimes you almost lose your life. For ice, as much appeal it holds, always longs to take their children back.