It angered you when I said, that being a writer
didn’t mean you had to be sad.
You said I didn’t understand.
At 4am the sound of spitting would wake me up,
and I’d find you leaning over your writing desk, whispering,
“There’s a word on the tip of my tongue,
I must’ve swallowed it.”
I hid your typewriter in the car trunk,
just like I hid my father’s cherry schnapps when I was young.
Mom said that drinking too much cough syrup
eventually made you sick.
Perhaps marvelling over sadness
had the same effect on you.
“Writing Withdrawal,” Alaska Gold
What is there to confess that’s worthwhile or useful? What has happened to us has happened to everyone or only to us; if to everyone, then it’s no novelty, and if only to us, then it won’t be understood. If I write what I feel, it’s to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet