A writer is not replaceable — each voice is their own.
A writer is not tameable — each is wild, each answers the call the way that they must.
A writer is not something definable, not something that an algorithm can create, not someone who can be easily pushed aside, not a simple money-making cog, not someone who exists to generate a profit for Capitalism’s insatiable beast.
A writer is someone you pay — art is not a disposable item; writers need to eat.
Warning: brief references to grief/loss and mental health problems
Yes! Dora Reads is now eleven years old.
...Somehow I've made it this far!
This poem was first published in the publication The Brain Is A Noodle on Medium, in response to the prompt "It'll feel easier in the morning" from the lovely Lucy Dan 蛋小姐.
Dawning
‘Day’s dawning, skin’s crawling
Pure morning
Pure morning’
— Placebo, Pure Morning
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| Image by Sasin Tipchai from Pixabay |
Sh**'s messed up.
...Like, it's been messed up for a while, I know. But our current level of 'historical' is feeling more like 'biblical' (in terms of scale, rather than religion,) every day.
It's one thing on top of another on top of another.
I came across a blogpost I wrote in 2018 where I was like 'the world is bad at the moment,' ...and I genuinely can't remember what I was talking about. That was 2 years before 2020, and none of us really know what normal is any more.
Maybe, five to ten years from now, I'll look back and think, 'what was I complaining about in 2025?' but I really hope not.
Against that backdrop then, I, like many people, have mental health problems. And have for 10+ years at this point.
And it's f**king tough.
So to all of those with mental health problems, or anyone struggling, right now - this is a shout out to you.
...which probably isn't that surprising.
Warning: this post contains discussions of drugs and addiction, and brief references to one of the most notorious scenes in IT (the child sex scene.)
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Stephen King
- or so the meme goes -
did not write Stephen King's IT
- he co-wrote it, alongside IT's primary author:
Cocaine.
Warning: brief reference to feeling suicidal, discussions of pointlessness, grief, mental health, existentential dread, and all the things that make up the general sh**ty state of the world.
Things have been tough for me, lately.
When you lose someone you love... it's damned hard.
Everything feels pointless - if that can happen to them, then what is the point of anything?
What's the point of writing a blogpost? What's the point of writing anything?
And since my purpose in this life is to read and to write... if I can't find the point of that, then what's the point of me?
(...I'm actually an optimist, if you can believe that. I just have mental health issues, and have been through some tough sh**.)
