Again, I fall.
To write takes courage, to sort through the dark, dim and sorrowful events attempting to assemble some words to make sense of what has happened. I am but a broken soul cautiously attempting to mend the broken reality that is her world.
As I sit here and write, I wonder: “Do I find these words poetic enough to share with the rest of you? Have I adorned my pain and agony with enough prose and beauty for you to accept it, to read it, even glance at it?”
The truth is, no matter how raw my writing gets, you will never truly feel the crude, gruesome and brutal crushing weight of being stuck in a life you despise, a mind you cannot control, and a body that serves no purpose but holding you down.
What aches the most is the futility of it all. The absurdity of life peaks in our inability to accept it in its crudest and most chaotic form.
To keep things short and simple, I am suffocating and lost my will to breathe.