Things wouldn't even be bad at all if I could just pick up a pen and write or sit down to type out my thoughts as I used to. How can writing fail me? Nay.. How can I fail myself by being unable to write? Writing has been my best friend, worst enemy, the most eloquent portrayal of me to the least intelligent one, a mediator between myself and I and a distancer between the elusive myself and them.
Has writing solved any of my problems? No.. But it has taken my natural propensities towards expulsion of others and subsequent desire to again behold them, spite then love, happiness then regret, and let just enough of the mental pressure I would and do store to trickle forth so that I was unable to ever quite completely lose my sanity or my life. In that way, I suppose, it was the work of God, keeping me up all the evenings long, lamenting the twisted course of events that my life was composed of and scratching every letter with hatred of life itself because I stained my own paradigm of it with my very existence.
No, no one ever knew my hate nor my remorse. No one ever felt my love, though they knew my darkness. It's not quite fair, but, under the assumption that others may have or may one day feel the same regarding me, I will bear it, and, perhaps, find strength to write of subjects new and, at least occasionally, uplifting.