A Journal of Indulgence

 

A stranger no more

I pulled an all-nighter, indulging myself in thought.  Nights are the best, when eyes are closed, looking inside of dark halls, and having the ability to light up a room..  Skirting around a complicated issue doesn’t exist in these lighted rooms.  It all becomes reality. 

It can be shocking to see what I indulge myself in; in these written words on the walls that I see, and manipulate into forms - I see myself, but can that self only live in our minds until these words are spoken, allowing them to become real, seen as truth to a world in which we live?

I write words to satisfy my thirst; I drink the reactions these words have on others. I’m probably no different than these vampires everyone seems to be so obsessed with, and as I play in the oceans of my mind, I also swim in everyone else’s, driving myself to finding out who that self really is.

Obsessed is what I am, with a short circuit in these connections to all feelings which are thrown into pieces of my self.  I have to express these obsessive words in some form, art preferably, before that connection can be welded together.

Every single word I write, feelings become a light switch to illuminate that dark room inside of my head. The more indulgence, the more obsessed – Has it become over-indulgence?  Is it a progression of eating everyone’s words, until I’ve become so bloated; making me look at each word with feelings so intimate it hurts?  Is it necessary for me?  The word feelings, as I say I feel this way or that way, is just a word until you identify its depth, attaching a form and space to it.  I indulge myself until it becomes painful.

What is it to feel this kind of pain, and if I say I hurt, does this pain mean something different to someone else?  The word obsession is a strong word, and what are the reactions of people who hear it?  When I light up a room for all to see, does it become a room for all to understand, and are you able to explore this room from within, which contains those feelings?

Yes, I am an indulger. I test feelings as much as I can when writing about them.  I’ve shown them; I’ve gorged and bloated myself until I’ve exposed them all, whether ugly, or beautiful, until I have to throw them up for everyone to experience.

The rooms are lit.  I feel satiated knowing a stranger out there is no more.  Is that stranger you, or is it me?