Sick with joy

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I find it immensely perplexing that i can feel, that i can form thoughts and ideas and put them into words both auditory and literary. Think of yourself in the desert, it has been many days since you have seen the face of another human, and  just as long since your last drink of water. When you are on the very brink of death, feeling forsaken, you see an oasis in the distance, you run to it and drink, you drink until you are satisfied. The feeling you have, the gratitude, relief, the unfathomable happiness, that is what i feel about my own cognition. It is as though in some other life or universe, i was not able to form complete thoughts, i was not able to make myself known and heard, i was not a sentient being. Its a silly thing, i know, to feel as though at some point in time i was unable to feel but i can not shake the feeling. In some way i know that there is more, more to life than living and  more to death than dying, but i don’t know what or how to find it. I’m ridiculous, i know, these are probably the ramblings of a mad woman, and yet i cant stop searching. Suicide, lets just get the big bad S word out of the way. You and I both know and have known since we were young, that suicide is not a socially or morally acceptable way of dying. I have never truly known why. I understand why religious people find it unacceptable, seeing as god will punish them for this and many other offenses, but what about the non believers? Lets say I’m one of those people who don’t believe in god, never have, never will, so ethically and morally why would suicide be the wrong choice for me? I do not fear eternal damnation at he hands of a fallen angel and his followers and i do not look forward to bouncing from cloud to cloud at the feet of god.

I feel in my heart of hearts, a moral dilemma that tugs and weighs me down. I  write, maybe not well, possibly badly, but I write. Ive been writing a story that keeps coming back to me, ive dismissed it for years, I write a bit then stop all together. Hopefully this time I can get more of it on paper, maybe that way it will stop plaguing me. The greatest obstacle I face while writing this story is that it is sick, it is twisted and makes me cringe. How am I to finish it? I see the scenes play on my closed eyelids,but when I open my eyes and hold the pen I can’t bring myself to write something so disgusting. The anxiety is driving me crazy, my heart flutters and my stomach turns but I feel compelled, I feel an obligation to write the story. I wonder if this is how everyone feels when they write, the men and women who write horror and gore are not necessarily violent. Those who write romance are not always hopeless romantics right? The fact that I can feel should be enough for me to know I can freely express myself. It is enough for me to know, that the awful things I write are not my own, those feelings belong to a character that chooses to tell me his story. I am content for now, reasured by my own words, I will write. I will write for others and then I will write to myself, to tell me that it is ok.