i just found this in my documents on my computer, its amazing how language and writing can take you back, can stril things up and can be so descriptive and such a release when you can hardly see staright! the beauty of writing is the hard copy that will always be present. "words are just sounds in the air" but can create miricles, build barriers, depict love, display hate, evoke a reaction, create movement or give pleasure. when written on paper its fact, unchanged reality that as it ages offers a true reflection on you past! the beauty of language!
When I cry I feel empty like it’s the last resort. The way we have been cloned by the first bread has shattered my illusion of the perfect life. I once again feel inadequate to the person that I once was. This shadow upon me refracts my view leaving my judgement of life jaded as it quivers below my disfigured humour. This broken bridge of which I once stumbled upon was thought to have been bound with the conspicuous knowledge that one day it will all be ok. But when I turn around to reach for the hands of those that formed the banister I was told to grasp along the way, I am greeted by a void that can turn the warmest of hearts cold. No sound can be heard. Unlike in the conventional lurid nightmare, that the naïve people, created in the wombs of today would imagine, as this is a feeling that no individual can prepare themselves to encounter. No hour in a day nor drug prescribed to intoxicate you can prevent these feelings of suffocation. Like a baby held underwater, crying for air, eventually giving up the struggle and watching their life being sucked away from their newly created hands. It’s the way those that choose to give up feel. This was just a stage on the road to recovery they will try to say however don’t be deluded. Its something not built of tarmac yet when wet like your tears it proves hard to walk through. Don’t let them take away you prestigious struggle to succeed and for them to take the credit. Its that pathway of picture frames. A forest of your own manuscript. No musician could compose a piece so dark as to make one turn their back on visual imagery and life itself. its those that make a stand that can regain their breath with pride and put their hand on their heart and truly mean it when they say “I weathered that storm too….and I made it.”