break fasts & ships on the sea
it’s april 4th, 2022, & i gave myself a few days ago — or more days ago, i already don’t remember — a deadline of starting a new online journal on my teenage online journal’s 18th birthday.
i was 13 in 2004, and i’m 31 now. and i wanted to publish this at exactly 20:20:24, the same time i published my first post on that journal 18(!) years ago. but i… i wouldn’t call it “writer’s block”, no. more like, “should i really write so honestly about …?” yet?
or perhaps the question isn’t if i should write about it yet, because i already have, and i am, and i will. and i’ve even written about it before, and published said writing before.
it was more of a question of, “should i publish this poem where i say being dead is less painful than being alive and in pain?“
“being alive is more painful than being dead
— to some people, anyway” i added as a disclaimer, but i already knew my friend agreed.
“i absolutely 100% agree” they replied, predictably
i cried today, during the normative work day. that was the title of the poem i wrote today, while crying during the normative work day: “i am crying during the normative work day.”
and this first post is not pretty, or very poetic. it’s not even, imo, as poetic as the first post i wrote when i was 13. i hastily put this website (back) together, last night, this afternoon right before i was supposed to leave, i woke up 10 minutes before my therapy appointment and felt dazed the entire day.
this first post is not pretty, or poetic. i don’t have “writer’s block” anymore — and i honestly don’t think i ever did. i have publisher’s block.
what is the price of honesty? i can’t not be myself.
i can only hit publish on this because i’m literally sitting outside a bar right now where my new friend is djing.
it hurts to dance.