The Deepest Cuts of My Writing

The deepest cuts of my writing often emerge in the latest hours of the night. When they do, the inspiration slowly fades as dawn approaches. If this phase of inspired prose is left to wane without expression, it’s lost forever. So, to force rest when there is none seemingly to be had is pointless, especially when images which defy explanation keep flashing before my eyes.

There are many towers that stand tall in my mind’s eye. I don’t know what occupies them other than that they contain great secrets. I’m reminded of first person shooter games that often involve ascending the floors of massive castles or descending deeper into great dungeons or winding labyrinths. 

The floors of these imaginary are more numerous than in any game I’ve ever played, with dozens upon dozens of concurrent stories to explore, each with new obstacles and foes at every turn. I feel these towers are where I lock away my most difficult memories and thoughts produced by tortured times. Over the course of decades, they have taken on lives of their own; sometimes I can’t help but let the towers’ denizens keep me up at night.

In my mind’s eye, my self image is often distorted and changes when I shift about trying to see the subtle changes from different angles. At times, things seem much more compressed. But, at other times, they’re stretched out as if dimensions seem to be at odds with one another just to keep my senses off balance or somehow mock me. There is never a true sense of calm or contentment that feels like it’s going to stay beyond a fleeting moment in which I feel truly the self which I crave to be.

It seems I always settle for much less than my wishes, but wishing rarely makes a dream come true without the effort to back it up. Even then, it’s often wishful thinking that leads to constant states of disappointment. Perhaps I’m simply wishing for the wrong things to be right.

It also helps that I’m rarely more than a stone’s throw away from a place to call home. That’s something I’ve rarely had for much of my adult life, at least the part where it was clear that home seemed to be a mirage more often than not. It helps to hear the river run and to know there are many little breaths who depend on the life blood it brings. To know I’ve brought a few more thirsty tongues for distant waters to quench is both wonderful and disheartening as too many more remain dry and wanting.

Related: A Voice Clear and Unmistakeable | Down Yet Another Rabbit Hole

Amelia Desertsong is a former content marketing specialist turned essayist and creative nonfiction author. She writes articles on many niche hobbies and obscure curiosities, pretty much whatever tickles her fancy.
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