It’s not writer’s block exactly, but more of a suspended occupation. Most days I can’t tell whether I’m rising up or I’m falling down—just plateaued between heaven and hell, a sort of earthly purgatory I’m obliged to abide in. It’s only when reason goes silent and anxiety dilates my senses that I suddenly see the basement rushing toward me. I know then my emotional staircase is crumbling and I’m about to hit the bottom. No warning; just that fatal oblivious step that sends me over the edge.
Then I stand, circle, sit, spill, clean, leave, come back…still confused, still lost.
You know you’re going down when you swallow the last pill in your happy medication bottle, or find your favorite CD naked and beaten by a brawling mob of derelict paperclips in an angry drawer, or forget the password—to everything. It’s then you realize you’re the total sum of absolutely nothing. Stuck between floors, unable to decide if you have the energy to drag yourself back up, or if it’s easier to sink in reluctant strength.
Sometimes I can wake up in freefall without putting a foot on the floor. On those days, the floor is probably the best place for me. But hiding under the cover of bruised bedding, repeating the mantra “What’s the point?” is no way to create art. No way to live.
How is it that I forget that there’s a plan—a Grand Design that includes every day of my life. How high I’ll euphorically fly and how dismally low my thoughts and actions will go. I’ll try on my own to figure out where that restless red line is—my personal limit before the uncompromising melancholy sets in. It nuzzles for a harmless kiss then strangles me in some kind of sick dominatrix version of depression and hopelessness. If I would stick to the staircase that leads up, the outcome of each 24 hours could find its authority to stand. What a short memory I have.
Still, there is a Plan. I’m sure of it. In the boggy mist of emotional collapse comes a POV I’m convinced no chipper little step sweeper smiling in the stark sunlight could understand. There are no billows of buoyant stardust floating from thier sweetly scented staircase traveled by the optimistic masses—blindfolded and carefree.
On my darkest days, I own the red carpet of the condemned—still loved and forgiven. The velvet rope exclusive to a perspective viewed only by an inflamed and open vein. There, the Creator of my days, nights, pages, portraits, performances… The Plan is still in place. It knows I am certain to fall—again and again—yet it continues in painful celebration.
As you descend into the delicately appointed atrium of the afflicted elect, hold on to the rail tightly with a brave and determined life. Your position, duration, and exclamation will be decided by your willingness to withstand the tears you share, the blood you shed, and the beauty of your crime.
Pursue the Grand Design, one step at a time.
Bleeding In Black and White 