Man's Worst Friend

The Death of Essence and Lost Souls

One great strength for writers is their spiralling because, for someone who doesn’t spiral, their emotions will simply never be deeper than surface level. Maybe they haven’t got the time to assess the feelings they get, therefore they won’t ever do the writers’ familiar exchange of perspectives that will lead to great conclusions and common greater truths that are so valuable when shared.

I find myself, I hope, at the end of a hurricane; the dreadful cloudy sun after the storm. A garden of destruction but at least the worst is over.

Spiralling, in this case particularly has done nothing for me. It hasn’t brought a new perspective I’m content with. I haven’t made peace with anything. I’m just sitting on a pile of landfill longing after my wrecked belongings. I don’t know what day it is, I’ve completely screwed up my relationship with time. Can’t seem to catch the hold of it.

I’ve come to the discerning conclusion that my childhood fears are still solidly present in my adult life. I’m still the little girl who gets paralysed at ballet class when I wasn’t sure of the steps.

Great, under-explored emotions should give you near infinite terrain to tend to. But I feel like my creative roots have been torn apart ever since and I’m left with only the upper-soil branches to tend to, slightly less lively now.
I wonder if my fear of confronting or digging too deep has a part in this, because I’m barely able to admit it exists at all - I can’t be sure if it does.

My ground was taken from me when I was 18 with two events I can’t get over still. Grief and life-threat have brought so much imminent concern and immobilising fear to my life, I feel drained.

Such experiences should be building space for me to lead all types of researches and conclusions, however, it has all but placed a complete halt to my writings all at once.

I’ve realised I can’t write emotions that aren’t beautiful. And neither grief nor fear are beautiful things to me. I’ll proudly be the first person to glamourise sadness, pain, longings and yearnings. But you don’t look pretty when you’re scared. Your heart beat paralysing you and your lungs not being able to retain enough air won’t bring a bitter elegance. You wouldn’t stand and admire a painting that makes you visibly uncomfortable with its existence in a museum - essentially because it IS uncomfortable. Discomfort isn’t beautiful.

This grotesque beast follows me everywhere I go. It is a wild dog I’m forced to bring along. I don’t know it and it doesn’t know me, it might bite me at any moment. Maybe the answer is getting to know it.

- Nova