I knew it was “real” (using that word loosely) by at least 45. It’s that horror reserved for lunatics. Those who see, and remember. The good with the bad. Can’t forget a face. A name, a number. A place, a home.
They were called writers. Finally. After living in the horror for , say, 45 years. But there’s no solace for the writer, in being called a writer. Same horror. But now drugs and escape are legal, legit. Paid for.
Oh, btw – What horror? Right. Well, not the horror of Auschwitz. Not Viet Nam. Those people end up tied to a bed, face down. Or dead. This horror is for the half-living. The sighted people, that wish they were blind. That hurts.
No pain killer is even interesting. Except the shotgun. Assume that made Hemingway feel a little better. For a little while. The duration of bullet to unconsciousness. That was bliss. Then, there was Hell to pay.
Sorry, you guys. Your poetry chapbooks are not enough for me. I want the red felt skirts at Christmas, and kissing. The kiss of desire. The foundational knowledge that someone wants you. Is wanting you. You, not a horrific freak.