Ealinor Writes

There is a pendulum I like to swing on. I climbed onto it… who knows how many years ago. I do not sway in bliss; perhaps it enjoys seeing me uncomfortable on it, dependent on it, with no way out. It does not even resemble the swings I played on as a child, the ones that made me fly, like a winged creature capable of anything, even of conquering the world. It is not like that.

This pendulum attracts me. It offers me comfort as I rise toward one side, and it cuts into my skin as I descend. Again, again, and again.

Beneath it, many proud voices crowd together. They tell me, “Get down. It’s easy. You can do it.” I look at them with a mocking, sorrowful smile, black tears tracing my cheeks, red drops upon my breasts. I cannot do it, simply because I do not want to. If I were to step down… what swaying would bring me comfort? Even for an hour? Even for a moment?

And so I keep swinging, without hoping to be brought down… without hoping that it will begin to hurt any less

There are days when I wake up and so many things come to mind that I wish I could say.

About the world, about people, about coffee.

It’s almost like adrenaline, a new drug I crave to drown in. My veins pulse with this desire.

Hungry, I take a piece of paper and stare at it. I take my journal of thoughts and stare at it. I just stare, but nothing comes out. The pen lies there on the white page, my hand trembles, furious with waiting. It wants to spill its black poison through those words… that I cannot find.

Some nights I have so many things to say, and I surrender to insomnia, petulant at my inability to find the right words.

I WISH MY ADDICTION ...

I wish my form of addiction—my cradle, the thing that lulls me away from the filthy bullshit of the world—had been art.

I wish my obsession had been painting strange shapes,

for hours, hours, hours, endless hours… without feeling the bites of hunger clutching at my stomach.

I wish my form of addiction were tracing, with a brush soaked in color, strange and monstrous shapes—sinuous and sensual—onto white paper.

And doing it for hours and hours… and hours, without the filthy thought of food fucking with my head.

I wish this had been so… but instead I settle for the ecstasy I feel when I hear my stomach complain and cry. I let it stay empty, left to agonize, because I already know that if I gave it even a little, my already unhinged brain would explode

Is it right to seek comfort and protection in eds—these monsters that millions of people devote years of study to eliminating from our lives?

Is it right to crave for that black coffee, that Coke Zero because you know it will manage to fill you without offering you absolutely anything that has WEIGHT?

Is it right to have a bestfriend that all the people around you try to keep away from you?

Is it right to have your first meeting with this bestfriend?

Was it right that day, a day of which I don’t even remember the colors, nor the season, to meet HER?

And yet ...I still wonder but

Even if sometimes it is not right, I would never blame myself for all of that.

I would never go back and leave Her