I just need to write.
It is something I have gotten away from as I have fallen cold and hard with each year that passes. One thing that I've learned to be true is that I have to be true to myself. I have allowed the darker side of humanity take hold of my mind and soul willingly. It was definitely a conscious decision. I remember thinking to myself "You know, this isn't going to end well." Yea, I know. I only want to feel good for a moment. I spend so much time fighting to stuff myself further below the surface and the fact it, it hurts. So, I hide behind a thing or two and let myself drift away. I have to say that it may have been worth it, yet I've come to another place where I have to let go and move forward no matter how much it hurts. Pain is only temporary. Just as those leaves sever their physical link to the tree that gave them life. Do they feel pain at the moment of separation? I'd like to think that they do, and they do it anyway.
I only want to write.
Writing is my only passion, rather the only thing I ever do that I feel passionate about. It makes me feel free. It gives meaning to these fingers and hands that I never give a bit of credit for carrying me through each day. I'd like to think that I'm good at it, but at the end of the day it doesn't really matter. I get such a rush when my hands are so eager that they want to produce and my brain cannot keep up. I don't have a style, nor do I have any formal skill. None of that means anything because it means something to me. It always has. Its been my release for a very long time. Does anybody care to read it? Does anyone really know these words exist? Maybe one day. For now, they'll help me dig myself out of a metaphorical pit I'd have liked to throw my conscience into never to be heard from or seen again. Thoughts have been pacing in my brain for a few years now working their way deeper so that I may never find them. It merely shadows what I've done to myself in that same period of time, but it's all good. I'll carry on.
I'll write again.