Blood on the Print

I used to write a plenty and in full color. Sometime a bit purple, one may say, but nonetheless words hit the page in a loud Jackson Pollock like way. Recently then have been deflecting off screens, notepads, journals, and sticky notes like a limp dick failing to find a hole. I wouldn't call it writers block, but more - a writer in peril. If I didn't write something today, I felt I would die. Not in a heart stopping, brain-aneurism way, but in a life-changing, "shit my life is too uninteresting to talk about" way. I'm trying to locate the paradigm shift that slit the wrist of my creative writing prowess...if i can be so vain. When did the blade clip the vein that let the words bleed out of my mind and drift
aimlessly into the abyss?

The search didn't last long. My last entry was August 2014. That same month I moved into an apartment with my girlfriend. I spend a lot of time alone, but NONE of it feels alone. I am completely suffocated without being at all surrounded for the majority of the day. If I was Hemingway with Gellhorn I'd be balls deep in a bottle of scotch writing the next greatest novel about a post Paris fishing trip. Instead I'm saving sips for the sober me and looking for typewriters online, believing that a vintage tool may be enough to erect a sentence from my diabolical mind. Even now, as I type, the words feel foreign, and I am yearning for a thesaurus becoming duplicitous to my old self. Is it gone? Has this thing that has since long been a part of me leaped from my bedroom window in search of a better home?

I have tried drinking which leads to blackouts, lack of productivity, and emotional distress. I've tried Dylan but his songs make no sense. I've tried the Beatles and all I can taste is cliche. Jim Morrison makes me cry and Hunter Thompson makes me envious...Fitzgerald makes me all of the above. I read a little less since the print volume creates a visceral hate and a cramp in my hand for the lack of typing exercise. I've been working out but I'd rather be thin and frail and published than strong, full, and concealed.

Til' I figure it out I'll just keep peeling off the skin to find leftover remains of an all too distant past.