It seems to me that I can write words worthy enough to be read- and felt- by people.

Thoughts that keep me up at night, words that twist and multiply within my scattered brain, ideas that haunt me- until I pick up a pen and a stack of papers and let them flow out of me.

My shadows have voices.  My demons feed me a horrid inspiration.  The fears that nip at my heels also smack creative thoughts into my head.  My coldness warms as the words spill out onto paper.

And it seems to me, that my inspiration, my thoughts, my ideas, all spill from my mind as I finally reach the content part of my life.  Without intense emotion, I am no longer able to mold and shape these words anymore.

Perhaps for happiness and security, I’ve needed to sacrifice the talent I needed to use for comfort and coping for so long.

This concept saddens me, but does not depress me; which is and isn’t the problem all the same.

2009