“My dear, find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into an eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and devour your remains. For all things will kill you, both slowly, and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover. ” – Falsely Yours by Charles Bukowski.
Some of you are probably wondering where I’ve been the last few weeks, huh? Well, aside from my constant whining about work and my inability to find the right balance between all the stuff that I do outside of blogging and reading, the tap has been opened. This is pretty much what’s been occupying my life at the moment. I’ve been writing – not stories, mind you. But poems. If you follow my Instagram account or my Tumblr, you would know that poetry has commandeered what little spare time I have. This thing, unfortunately is like a virus, but one that is a welcome infection. It has no cure or remedy. All I can do is to let it run its course. You also can’t force it. If you have to force it out of you, then it’s probably shit. I think Charles Bukowski said the same thing as well. Brilliant man.
I remember a post I did a while ago complaining about my muse being a cold-hearted wench who’d so cruelly abandoned me. And now, she seems to have come back in full force. I try not to suppress it, though. And it’s not like I can. I tried to remember what prompted this sudden burst of inspiration, and everything points to this lovely typewriter. It works like a charm and the clickity-clack sound it makes is music to my ears. Sometimes, I’ll sit there and type nonsensical stuff just because I want to hear it. I’m worried though. If I ran out of ribbon, does that mean my poems will stop writing itself?
What about you? What do you do outside of reading and blogging?