No Other Way

I wake early, much too early. The hangover lies like a heavy threat over the bed, suffocates the sunrise and crooked dreams. I know there were words written in the dark night, but I cannot remember what they were. The feelings, however, remain.

The day drags itself through a headache cloud and terrified nerves. In the bath, a new book begins to write itself quietly, and I am glad of its company. A bottle of wine lends an ear, but I have nothing worth telling it and we grow tired in the evening. The truth is, anxiety is company enough. The truth is, it is not entirely unwelcome, after all.

Because in the dark smoke and and vicious daggers, do I not finally recognize my own face, my bleeding heart? In the whirling angst that strangles my lungs and silences my voice, do I not see words write themselves across blank pages, remember where I came from, where I know I must go?

These drops of red wine, this festering wound. These breathless tears, this screaming madness. When it truly is time. It means you bleed with purpose.