There's nothing pretty about writing, its a parasitic, vile process. At least that's what my teachers taught me.

There's no relief in the end either, it's a constant haunting. A stomach ache turned acidic requiring surgery overseas. Where you find yourself in some pale blue painted room and the attendee has bad dandruff and smells like communist era cologne. I would know, trust me.

They have it all wrong on the television, they have us either living eccentric lives with perfect teeth and antique brooches or dying in the gutter with distended bellies and black livers.

What about the ones who make it out alive and live to write about it later?

What about the sleepers?

When I write I'm either pooping or I smell like a 5 day old pizza left out on top of the stove.

I'm madness. confident with a lowercase “c” because I'm always in battle with my ego. Is this too much? Am I too forward? Too sure of my own shit and history?

They had it all wrong.

What happens after the pupil has outgrown the teacher is complete anarchy, a systems failure, an existential fucking crisis. No one talks about this.

He wrote about the big SAD and I chased it. I ran after it hungry,

cough

cough

dying cough.

I fucking nearly died, for good, that 11th time

It wasn't until after the fires had nothing left to burn and flames licked the last version left of me that I finally realized… He was writing about a life only I knew how to live and he was the one who died chasing it.

As I stand by the side of the road, which is as close as I can get right now, I look out at the woods I know so well. I spent my childhood in those woods – exploring, hiking, climbing. Those trees, the rocky dirt trails hidden under their branches, the stream that runs through them – they hold so many memories.

Somewhere under those trees is the spot where I fell in love for the first time. I can remember staring up at the stars as he timidly reached out and took my hand in his. I was so nervous that I couldn’t stop giggling.

I caught my first fish on the lake just a mile down the road. I was seven years old. I can remember standing on the lake's shore with my dad’s hands on mine, pulling my pole back and letting it fly. I can still feel the excitement at the first tug and my delight as I posed for a picture, my proud dad all smiles behind the camera.

My first real injury happened there too. I broke my ankle when I tripped on a rock. I remember tears streaming down my cheeks as I was carried down the trail.

I almost lived there once. After a fight with my mom, I packed my backpack with snacks and a change of clothes, grabbed my jacket, and left the civilized world behind. As the sun set, I thought I had found the perfect life – nothing but the stars above me, the ground beneath me, and the clean, open air around me. I went home six hours later, soaking wet from the rain.

I know those woods better than I know my own family, my own house. They have been my home when I felt like I didn’t have one. Those trees were alive long before I was born, and I always believed they would long outlive me.

But now, as I stare at that familiar tree line, only one thought crosses my mind.

It should be green.

Not red-hot with orange flames engulfing everything in their path and thick, black smoke rising into the air, blocking out the sun and the blue sky.

It should be green.

I've been punctual

when on vacay

then, it's always off, and running

ink and blood... and love

like maybe we'll win this

papered chase that's flooding... in

upon the floor of the Living...

from under the double Doors

that color the room atmospheric

in stereo, with delicate touch...

and remind, in body celestial

that time is internal...

and it is not killing us