We are good stories waiting to be written.
In writing and most creative outlets—and art as work and work as life and life as whole—it gets worse before it gets better.
They say you have to vomit first,
vomit your demons and your rage, your mediocre beasts, vomit the sinner
and the saint and all duality, vomit your ego and your bruises, ’til the
house gets so clean, there’s nothing, no one left—but you.
Just like we detox our body from years of malnourishment, and we agonize
as all the toxins in the underworld say their goodbyes and leave our
system, so it is the case not only with our minds but with the way we
face our lives. Our modus operandi for anything is the same as for everything.
And she bolts the door against her heart
out wailing in the rain.
Interior
Her mind lives in a quiet room,
A narrow room, and tall,
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom
And mottoes on the wall.
There all the things are waxen neat
And set in decorous lines;
And there are posies, round and sweet,
And little, straightened vines.
Her mind lives tidily, apart
From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart,
Out wailing in the rain.
A narrow room, and tall,
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom
And mottoes on the wall.
There all the things are waxen neat
And set in decorous lines;
And there are posies, round and sweet,
And little, straightened vines.
Her mind lives tidily, apart
From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart,
Out wailing in the rain.
~Dorothy Parker
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