Out of Spite
Back then, I wrote out of spite — sometimes.
Okay maybe it was a little more than sometimes, but that was before. That was when I was fucked up, and young, and too sad for anything else but my bed. I haven’t been like that for a while, even if life did turn shit for me, occasionally. I didn’t cope with it the way I was most familiar of: writing fanfics — I wrote out of spite through that.
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I brain dumped, and it wasn’t creative. Just raw and messy. Vengeful, even. It was direct and it was just me; It didn’t involve a world distant from mine or characters I made up along the way. It wasn’t a try hard domain of poetry. It was nothing like writing out of spite entirely for the sake of expressing what I felt through short lived stories.
I grew out of it because it was more exhausting than not — and because I stopped being afraid of my truths and how horrific they actually looked like. So, it has been a while to have this urge to write stories and press all these overspilling emotions I have in it.
Ironically, despite writing so much better now than I did years ago, I still liked how I did it then. I liked how it flowed and how it read to me when it wasn’t done deliberately, uniquely. Thought through. And not all over the place.
I keep pondering about the things I did then that still lingers subtly today and about the things I refuse to do again, but only because of what it cost me; these are the things that needs to be processed, but not in a way I do effortlessly now.
I got to do it how I used to: Fanfiction.
