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