The two types of people in this world are listeners and writers.
Listeners voraciously consume each word that is so generously spewed upon their tidy plates. Listeners surrender their right to particularity. Their willing jaws are clamped open with rusted tools and they hardly gag as clear feeding tubes are cruelly inserted through the nostrils and into the stomach.
The listeners spread their wings only to willingly have them severed with an old hatchet. Nothing is expected of the listener because all potential is dismembered. “I could’ve” is removed from their vernacular. In return, the listener finds a haven. It is a cage, protected by the security of the metal wires that withhold the expectation of flight.
Listeners are grounded. Listeners are sane. Listeners live and die with as much significance as a blade of grass in a prairie.
Writers are the children who peeled open their scabs for aesthetics.
They take note of every slight detail from the putrid sound of fluttering flies festering in a rotted pile of dark red entrails, to the prominent dimples of a child’s beaming gap-toothed smile. Each detail holds a weight that can never fully be grasped and hoisted into the air.
Tenacious and foolish, the writer attempts to accomplish such a feat while knowing that failure is imminent.
Writers understand that to surrender is to become a listener — a listener is as promising as pancreatic cancer.
Writers accept the burden of insanity in exchange for the diseased and decrepit wings.
Writers don’t know anguish — they are anguish. They are the voice of self-destructiveness. They are their only saviors. Writers smear upon blank canvases with paint made of their own suffering. They understand that a piece is never complete without the price — a toll that is rarely forgotten.
You see, it’s writers that catch the human experience like fireflies in a jar.