Genesis

I re-ignite the dying embers with my soul, dissolve the char in blinding flashes of pain and use the ink to pen another story.

Why is it that we create when we are at our worst? I can almost feel the words flying out of my wounds like popped confetti – magical little explosions of glitter covering me as I self-destruct. It feels good to play God after months of mindless consumption, to put something out there, even if it entails giving into an obscure grief. Perhaps we choose to suffer so we get to feel something. Perhaps we chase the wrong decisions so that we can fetishize our own sadness, like Bojack says.

I wonder whether this is how we came to exist as well – if we are cathartic pieces of poetry and prose that formed from the splatter of a god’s tears, with tragedy running in our bloodline; if we come from pain like vases borne of scalding glass, memories of the furnace etched into our being, as we gather enough regrets to drown our void and fulfil the curse of our genesis.

I wonder.