For me, life was always going to be about love. Not quite sure why, but from an early age, my attention had been invasively caught by the idea of suffering for extraordinary things and turning them into something I can control. That the center of the universe, that the very core of my existence belonged to an unspoken want that merely resembled what I had previously read in fairytales as a little girl or had coincidentally loved in a previous life. That my life quite literally depended on this harsh truth, that my humanity, my survival was counting on this flawed belief system to function under my own command. That I must prevail over logic and hold onto my own skin tightly, holding no other human other than myself accountable for the consequences I might be crucified for. See, for a writer, everything is explicit and should be told as. A moon for the man covered in ink is never just the moon, nothing is as is. For nothing is as seen, but felt, but loved, but as brilliantly told with the roll of the tongue. The moon is the same moon Shakespeare wrote its loveliest sonnets under and Charles his sorrows; it is the same moon many infatuated lovers have told their colorful woes to without the knowledge they were drunken poets loosely based on clichés. No matter how cold, how hardened your human heart has become, it is a wonderful thought, that the moon has made more unstable poets out of whores and businessmen, more secret affairs in the streets of Paris, more drunks of perfectly happy men that we know of. You hurt them, the writers I must explain, and the mother fuckers will spend the rest of their lives writing about their lung failure due to feeling hardened by the loneliness your absence has left them with. Most writers use sex to fulfill their desire for life, their need to feel more than the average person. Quite dramatic if you ask me, but I must say, I’ve foolishly fallen into the trap myself. By not fearing such a natural sensation of human nature that has driven me right into insanity. It hurts because it matters and things are supposed to matter, the voice in my head begins to proclaim. “Sweet child, conceived in love,” it continues with pride and much sorrow, “it aches because it mattered and things are supposed to matter in life because it means you’ve loved and that you’ve completed such a task, so brilliantly, as heartbreak merely exists as conclusive evidence to prove the existence of true love. Now look at yourself, in complete and utter chaos, you’ve accomplished what most are afraid to do for themselves, you’ve lived a life worth living. You will now die with not much happiness in between your veins and cracked bones, but much passion instead, no lack of it will carry on the burdens with your tainted name, you’ll die having lived. And that is by far why we must sin, hell is a loose representation of what goes on in your head, what you’ve written in your desk, and a comfort to know we exist in a burning place full of men covered in the same ink fallen fools of the same tricks. You do not need to curse yourself for the sins you’re committing, it’s all simply forgiven, as you are a writer before you’re human. You will eventually learn how to romanticize your pain so you can write about suicide in such an eloquent way that will make you want to kill yourself. Congratulations. Now take it, take the pain, and turn it into something else. Turn yourself into an artist, a lover, a poet of sorts. You must, you must, no matter what the cost, love just as brilliantly as before. Because otherwise your soul will become the ultimate price you pay. You must live again, you must, your soul is the one at risk here and you must prevail against all human logic and emotions that is holding you back from once again throwing yourself in blindly into the poet who’ll write your explosive orgasms so vividly with his lips that you’ll learn how to say his name in fifty different languages and one will be the love you’re missing in the words you write so anxiously. And you’ll begin to love the rush that it is to sin under the moonlight and warm breeze, the red wine between your rosy lips, and the man in between your legs making you scream. Midnight is most certainly for the lovers, the whores, and the writers. And with breath that’s tastefully dipped in nicotine and your lover’s soul, you’ll learn how to mouth the words, “I’ve come to dance, I’ve come to sin, I’ve come to life in the dancing strokes of your blank canvas and daring eyes,” and with a head tilt and the slight parting of your broken lips just enough to let you breath out these poisonous words; you’ll say your infamous last words, “get closer until I’ve tainted your name with the blood my scars have poured so your presence sticks in my pages, until I’ve turned you immortal, reassure you that you might escape my touch, but never my words, as I’ve turned your foolish self into my poetry and love into my whore,” you take a brief pause to look into his sad eyes, “and now you must control this man around me, as love has made me exhausted and disappointed, but it has turned me into a woman and I will gladly use such a godless thing to bring every man to his knees”.
— even the writer’s whore was once conceived in love