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Charles Bukowski said, "My dear, Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains. For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it's much better to be killed by a lover." I found my love in writing, but as I let it consume me, I felt only relief. In a way, this quote from one of my favorite writers resonates with me, but what I love doesn't kill me. I write because it mends my bones when they feel like they will snap from the weight on my shoulders. The words that flow onto the page act as a band aid to my past. There is a solace that I can only reach through creating.
As I've written before, I had a period in my life where all I knew was darkness and the rooms of a hospital. When I tried to dig into my thoughts all I found was a void of nothing. I thought all creativity and happiness was gone. Within this boredom, I found a patch of light with which I wrote a list of all the things I was looking forward to once I got out of the hospital. With that paper etched into my mind, I began to write. Every time I sat with my thoughts, they grew bigger and bolder. Words turned to rainbows of indigo, then violets, blues, and eventually reds and oranges. These colors brought back color in my cheeks and a will to live and create. Art therapy was my favorite time of day, and the instructor saw something in me change. I started expressing myself through words and pictures. Before, I was nothing but bones and desperate eyes. My fingers were no longer weighed down, but straining towards the life that writing brought me. There was a form of hope that I found in the words that spilled out of me.
Now, I am no longer drooping eyelids or broken limbs. I have found a sense of purpose, even it is only for my own benefit. I have learned to love myself and the things that I create. Even now, in the midst of writers block, creating something is comforting. Looking to other writers and artists has helped me find a place to call my own. I see beauty in things I used to only see as death. Often, I think about Van Gogh. Van Gogh used to consume yellow paint in an attempt to be happy. People rendered him stupid, but I can relate with this desperate man. He simply wanted to be happy. As it turns out, writing is my yellow paint. People will try anything to find peace, and a whirlwind of words happened to be mine.
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