Storybook.

I went to the library today and checked out some novels. Authors include John Green, Maureen Johnson, Lauren Myracle, and David Levithan. Their subtle darkness and infinite depth never fails to put me at ease.

I find that without the constant writhing of not wanting be alive, the literary world has opened itself up to me. Poetry has become the most prominent life force in conversation. Thoughtfulness has become the primary objective in exchanges. A strand of guilt lingers on the chats seen and unanswered, but there's a sort of toxicity that's also started to leave my consciousness. Its like a comb is running itself through the knots of my life, and maybe, on a luxury splurge, I'll get a dose of body wash.

What a gratifying feeling it is to talk about the world at level of complexity just enough to penetrate a person's pathos. How exhilarating it is to exchange the pleasurable surprise of a sudden deepened comprehension, a brief point of connection. It is such a joy to hear a poetry that resonates with your own, one that matches peak for peak, trough for trough. Even after such a long wait, I could not imagine a blessing like this.

Here's a Tumblr post by d.a.s. It's called "God's Gift." Its one of the poems that breaks my heart in two, four, eight pieces, a snap with every line.

A man once told me that God fed us poetry through our prayers, 
but this one got stuck on the way down.
I’m used to the beat of words against my spine,
the slash and sting of it.
I know I’m meant to be stained with ink, 
but this poem made me think about 
the way words become knife wounds 
more and more these days. 
I am meant to be healing. 
I am meant to be better. 
But I’m still up until three, 
relearning the phrases for ‘dying’ like this isn’t lies pulled from the nearest dictionary,
a salt pillar stranded in the soft Sodom desert.
Was this what you wanted, God? 
Did you want the poems to burn me from the inside-out, 
because, I swear if it was,
 that’s what you’ve got:my fingers all twitchy and ink-smeared, 
writing haikus in the margins of your Holy Book –a poet before a person. 
No wonder your name becomes choked in my throat: 
with all these commas you shoved down my trachea, 
it’s a miracle I don’t suffocate on the things unsaid. 
I know you gave me words to help write the end of the world, 
but this poem is not a gift. 
This poem is rotten, apocalyptic dirty.
This poem is sin.