Words are like flowers;
when you put them together properly, you can create a work of art.
I used them to escape the jail I had created for myself. I
used them like a dying man pushes his morphine button. They were my escape—my pain
killers, and I used them in large quantities.
Bleeding to death by ink is a fantastic thing. The pain, the
fear, the voices and the shadows where they lurk--it all gets washed away with
a pen in my hand.
It was difficult to write on anything at the mental hospital
because writing utensils were seen as weapons (again, understandable). So they
gave me short, stubby pencils like you use at the library. But I took it anyway
because it calmed me more than the Ativan I begged for.
I wrote my way to crazy. And that is to say, I wrote my way
to sanity. Yes, restored mental health. Which fully includes the crazy and the
ugly. Those are the parts that make us beautiful and evolve in to more lovely
human beings.
I wrote until I realized that life is never as black and
white as it looks on paper,
even though I had hand-crafted every detail. For the first time, I realized
that I was in control of everything and nothing. I was invincible with all the fragility of a flower.
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