The Processing

To work with ink is to work in black;
in ink and dark and the unknown.
Hardly a flicker of light shall
illuminate, and we shall crawl through
stagnant pools, and peat bogs,
and locked basements, and all those
troubled places in our minds.
It is our release, our goal among goals.
Everything starts with it, and everything
ends.

Writing may be the cruelest
of all artistic endeavors.
Where at once we wish response
we instead get silence.
When we wish for a gut reaction,
we get someone checking to see
how long our recent venture is.
And where we want for people
to understand in full everything
we feel so deeply,
we instead get a apologetic smile,
meant to make us feel better.

Give us a page. Give us a moment of
your attention. Sit and listen and allow
yourself to feel what it feels to drown,
to know that pressure on your chest,
like some demon that wont let you rise.
We will tell you of nightmarish things,
things that we love and adore despite how
perverse and insane they may be.
But do not ask why
we are ok with all of this, because I
will give you the answer now.

We write what we do, we sick, twisted,
cosmologically fixated butchers of
those things we adore...
Because we are all lonely,
and the darkness hugs us back.
And in those dark smiles that it gives us
we see love and life, and all those things
that make what is real a reality.

We write in ink, in black,
In darkness.