I guess I’m destined to only feel the writing muse when I am either on top of Mt. Joy or when my heart is shattered to pieces. What a bipolar muse she is. What a fucked up, bipolar, messy, sadistic muse she is.
The heart is resilient. It survives losing people you love and shattered dreams and even despair. It batters itself against the shores of love, desperately trying to crawl through old tapes and land mines and coping mechanisms just hoping that the tiny little lighthouse with the glorious pinprick of sunshine yellow sunlight will still be there when the battle for survival is over. Sometimes we get lucky and it is but often, (as much as I hate to say it out loud) it’s a moving target and only servers our masochistic efforts to remind ourselves that we were built for battle and not repose.
I’m tired of being resilient.
I’m tired of believing in shit and hoping and daydreaming and thinking in the quietest, most desperately small space way at the back of my heart that, “maybe, just maybe, there’s a little piece for me too.”
I’m just tired.
And I think for now, or at least for tonight, I give up. <\3