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| The implication of this shoes is : "FORMER BAD GIRL, SHE'S BACK !!" These are my license to kill baby. |
There are times that I hate my own writing. I’m tempted to delete my online presence, torch my computer and phone, and rip up every notebook, every sheet of paper — that I can get my hands on. I’m always looking for the silver-lining; the meaning behind the trauma; the devil in the details; the sardonic comedy; the black wit; the divine irony. I take something vile, and I lie about it — I try to dress up the hideous truth, in attractive words.
Pain is not beautiful. It is not your lover. It is not your friend. It can be your teacher — but the lessons are carved into your flesh, they hollow out your soul.
Depression is not interesting. It can not be contained in verse or prose. It can not be written away — only dwelt on; only manipulated and teased.
Metaphors don’t fill the emptiness. Fictionalization doesn’t re-write history. Structure can’t hold you. Composition isn’t hope.
Writing won’t save me… but lies are lovely distractions. They keep me company until I can catch up with my sanity. They are a reason to pull myself out of bed; on days like when I’m somber, drained, and I’m taking life (myself) too seriously — when I am truly afraid of myself.
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