UNDERSTANDING AN ADDICT MISUNDERSTOOD

A Writer Misunderstood...


Writing's one hell of a drug
I fidget and panic if my fix is not satiated
as if something's wrong with my world
Yearning for that temporary high when pen meets paper
and words formulate thoughts.
Hence, I write like an addict


That high I got when you read my writing
That high when I read all that you wrote
that high when we conversated about the littlest of things
That high that all too often I got from YOU
yes you, i'm talking about you
I break this vow of ours, well this vow of mine really,
to abstain from contacting you
directly, indirectly or otherwise
to let you know that this proficiency in my writing
is far from being a sign that I can "write alone"
This is but a phenomenon of disillusionment
one only present by being a writer misunderstood

It is my way of re-achieving that high that you once gave me,
a high that I foolishly know can never be repeated on my own or with anybody else.
it is what keeps me going
what empties the ink from my pen
and expands the thoughts in my mind
keeps the love in my heart unconditonal
it is what keeps me from ending it all.

I miss that feeling
that once fleeting feeling so many millions of seconds ago.
Sharing my thoughts with someone whom I knew had no ounce of patronization nor prejudice.

or so I thought...

or maybe it still is...

either way that answer needs to be left unanswered.
some questions where never meant to leave one's mouth
forever embedded in one's thoughts
how are you?
are you writing?
did i mean anything to you?
did i change your life somehow?
are you giving it your all?


I know all of the answers already, yet still I yearn for a voice, a direct response,
an eloquent vocal manifesto.
or was I wrong about everything?
am I still?

what I thought I have already forgotten and forgiven
comes back to haunt me
this once feeling of forever that proved to be fleeting...

in retrospect writing was not my drug
it was actually you, and that feeling of being understood that you had sustained
my euphoria in disillusionment
that summer feeling will forever be my intangible bohemia.

Now I understand that at the moment, there is only one understanding that I know...
That I am but a casualty to an addiction masking behind the benevolence of understanding.


-chrissanjose