So, I’ve been blogging for a long time, but back inÂ the day, my blogging was different. I mean, I’ve always written about books, movies, pop-culture stuff, but when I wrote about myself, I could never write with honesty. I used to present myself in a sterilizedÂ way, the way I thought I should look. If I felt something dark, something uncomfortable, I wrote about it in a really roundabout way. I said things without really saying anything. It was so counter-productive to what I’ve wanted since high-school, I want people to know me. I want people to understand me. If I’m to be liked, or loved, I don’t want it to be because I’mÂ censoringÂ myself.Â The last few years have cured me of insincerity in my blogging and my writing in general.
Back in December, I was astonishingly depressed, genuine suicidal depression, and I wrote the Hell out of it. I always write with the idea that if I don’t feel it, I don’t write it. If I’m happy, it shows in my writing, but in December, all I felt was black inside, dead. So, I wrote things like…
by: Michael Phillips
I’m a suicide party with no refreshments. I’ve no chocolates with razor-blade centers, no arsenic coveredÂ hors devours. I’ve no thalidomide wine to wash it all down. No waiters serving whole-grain crackers topped with a quick shotgun blast toÂ the face. ThereÂ are no nooses for one to hang one’s coat, or oneself. I’m a horribly under-staffed and under-stocked, poorly decorated wake not to be. I’ve but one lonely guest, and all I have to offer is time, time that they don’t want.
by: Michael Phillips
I died awhile ago, I think. I drowned in brandy, or scotch, or some sort of exotic fruit juice. I really can’t say anything with certainty, my mind is all dim, my vision fuzzy, like my eyesÂ are covered in a thin veil of gauze.
Maybe I’m just asleep, a bizarre world created in my head. Nothing feelsÂ the same, looksÂ the same, everything slightly askew from what I remember. Something obviously happened, must have happened. I just can’t remember, so many gaps. So many Goddamn fucking gaps. Can’t think. Can’t breathe.Â If I am asleep, I can’t wake up.
Or worse, maybe I’m still alive, alive and broken. A shattered mirror that can’t be fixed. Always covered in spidery cracks, reflecting nothing.
I think I died, though. Drowned, or something. I think, but I don’t know.
This sort of writing definitely upsets some people, especially on a blog. People expect my writing to be uplifting, to be consistently inspirational. Nobody can live up to that standard, and I’ve learned to quit trying. People give me advice, they want to fix me, to save me, though I never ask for any of it. My writing’s not some desperate plea for help, it’s just honest. It’s cathartic. I just write with the material at hand, becauseÂ the writing suffers otherwise. The material isn’t always dark…
She’s like opium
by: Michael Phillips
She’s beautiful, so smart, endlessly interesting. You tell her these things, because they’re entirely true, because whenever she’s around you’re entirely happy, but she just smiles and looks away. She doesn’t think she’s particularly amazing, butÂ you know she is, and you want her to know it. Talking with her isÂ the most natural thing in the world, you’re both so ridiculously alike in your odd contemplations. Your wants and worriesÂ are soÂ the same.
You’re a restless sort, rarely content, often lonely, no matter who’s around.Â You always feel that you ought to be somewhere else, but that somewhere is elusive, never within reach. These feelingsÂ are usually so palpable, but not when you’re with her. Lying next to her, holding her hand, her head on your shoulder, loneliness doesn’t exist.Â You don’t want to be some place else, there is no place else. Being close to her is like walking through an opiate fog, but that feeling of peace, of contentment is real, not a drugged out illusion. You want to say these things, her lying so close, butÂ you don’t. Her brown eyesÂ are gorgeous and bright, warm and alluring, they makeÂ you forget your way with words.
I want people to read my stuff and come away saying that I’m a good writer, that I use the craft well, but I don’t care what people think of my content.
Why do you write?Â AreÂ you ever afraid to write what’s really on your mind, and why?