There were years.
Years when the only respite from amorphous thoughts and cerebral chemicals was silence. But at a certain point, even silence could not placate. What replaced silence was a nocturnal ringing, an insomniac siren, an electric pain — lethargic yet unrelenting.
In frenzied twilight hours a saccharine bitterness congealed between the prednisone and wine; a certainty that words must form or else they will implode. Still, blank pages mocked my taut silence and ink refused to flow.
One night a fissure tore through my bedroom floor and beckoned me to jump in. I slid down its jagged walls to find words waiting for me within — words that I thought had long deserted me, condemned me to silence. It is strange how a rupture in the fabric of life can bleed out inspiration, like a knife bleeding scarlet from milky skin.
In this fissure, I can define saccharine bitterness. I can record it and disarm it of its intoxicating power. I write because I must. Because the fissure may close at any moment, sealing me forever within its silence.
The stories I record are not all my own. I do not need to experience the spectrum of saccharine bitterness to scribe them, for I feel, in a past life, I already have.