It seems so odd-
little dots of ink, pressed onto a page
or generated on a screen, in pixels-
they’re captivating. My eyes rush
across them as an alcoholic drains a bottle,
but the only opiate here is
meaning, and the only drug is
knowledge. Or stories.
The words claw at me
with serif teeth-
sometimes a san serif draws blood too.
I’m drowning, spinning, falling, suffocating, dying.
Can bleeding out be reversed?
I am that process:
the blood on the page, from all the pages, all that
pain and suffering and death pours into me.
I gorge on it- there must always be more. After all,
you can’t have a story without them, those
dark things people are capable of in the corners of their souls, the
things we rush through, hurriedly,
whispered in dark corners furtively,
ashamed of ourselves
and the monsters who walk in our skins.
I’m an addict, and the stories are my drug.
The kind of drug where pain is a gateway to meaning, and
we embrace dark together with light-
little black letters that grip the universe in their talons-
and me too.