I never stopped writing. I haven’t liked anything I’ve written in the past year, but I kept trying. I have thousands of stray thoughts scattered throughout my harddrive, scribbled onto the blank spaces between the ink of old accounting files that somehow missed their trip to the shredder. I kept trying, and I keep on trying, but the words all feel…light. I need my words to carry the burdens my depression has placed onto me, but my words can’t change this paper into thicker skin, so the scars just keep coming… the words that once propped up my weak heart have become hollow bones, but I’m not a bird, I have no wings, so being so fragile brings me no escape from the dangers in my head. My words can’t protect me, but what else can I do?
I don’t like pain.
I’m afraid of being hurt.
I have dreams, expectations for the future, expectations for myself.
I have hope. Not just a thread, but a king sized comforter of the stuff.
I have days where I accidentally see my reflection and the fact that my face is smiling doesn’t come as a surprise.
I drink coffee by myself on Sunday mornings while I surf the web to find inspiration for my next poem, next blog post.
And I have this blog. It’s small, and I haven’t been posting much in the past year, but it’s still here… I’m still here.
So even if I can’t find the right words to build me up, I can keep trying, because I’m alive. That might not seem like much, but it’s enough for now… just getting through today is enough for now…