Ananké

This is a direct sequel to my very first piece here

I am writing this through an inexorable urge to write

And what is this but another attempt at expressing the contradiction of it all.

I’ve been possessed. There’s a gnawing at the back of my throat and a restlessness coursing through my veins. It started gently but swiftly turned into an unrelenting torrent and I count my stars and thank my luck that, for this time, I could recognize it. This… feeling, it is one that makes each and every idle moment one of pure resistance, all to assuage the appearances of the everyday, but is uncaged and unearthed in the loneliness of the night.

As of right now I feel more capable of expression, of writing, than ever before, yet I cannot fathom what can lie beneath that is deserving of the ink; not right now. It is an impulse that cares not for the subject but for the matter itself.

The seed has blossomed into Yggdrasil’s competition.

Curse the white page.

My conscience tends to arrive late and eager to diagnose. It wants to call this a madness, a rambling! Pure vanity more like. If only naming the fever was enough to break it. So inane.

There is an art to consuming. I’ve had my fill and I need more, I crave more. Feasting on the words of all who are present here as well as those who will never be, and all of who they were at each moment of immortalization has been fermenting and coagulating within me into something I can’t quite name. At the same time there is such an intense impulse to let it all out. Every thought, every desire, every forbearance that screams for action. The hunger to consume has become indistinguishable from the need to expel. To pour something, or everything, but never nothing, out before it rots inside me, hence rotting my own as I have known myself to do. Not so in a very long time though, thank God.

Each thought demands its own song but the music won’t come and so I fall limply into the hands of the written word once again. So many desires yet such little capacity. There is no cowardice anymore, or at least not right now. Every emotion that is pushed deep down can only come back to surface with a stronger force. Have you ever tried to drown a beachball? Exactly.

Only I can save me from myself and that’s how it has always been, and this moment is but one more in a long list of attempts at becoming an answer to the problem of self.

Dissuade me or not, read me or not, know that this very composition I write is one I desperately need to let out. And if you are reading this then it is because I couldn’t stop the oh so hungering craving for a witness.

I need more. More language, more beauty. More certainty and more confusion. Feed me. Feed me. Feed me.

I need this to make sense

More than that I need it to matter

More than that I need the desperation never to leave. I am hers and she is mine.

And she has so many faces. She is of creativity, and she is of desperation. She is of deep currents and of severed thoughts never allowed to blossom. We feast together on everything that wasn’t.

Is this what it feels to be alive? A raggedness to my breathing and a longing for more?

Words simply cannot be stopped, and they’ll be the end of me. Of this me that desires tonight to extract itself from this husk. Of this me that won’t fall into Morpheus’s embrace until every necessary thing has been put to the written word. Each sentence written leaves less of me unwritten.

Tonight I surrender.

I embrace this possession gladly.

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