Writer’s have a sense of reality that we can never let ourselves reach. We’re always off in a fantasy land where our dreams are not too large, too far-fetched, or too precarious. And even our egos for a second can overshadow our responsibilities. For a moment being humble has to take a back seat and selfishness comes into play. Too high strung, too worried and the only way to ease the pain is with a writing utensil. The words embedded by a stencil right across the heart.
I enjoy being in my surreal world. It’s just a matter of finding the courage to bring them to life. No pills and the only one on one sessions I get are with the notebook for hours on hand with no extra charge. My therapist only closes its ears when I’ve ran out of space. Feelings, emotions, and the serious tears of reality are somethings that must be constantly endured. It’s what connects me to you but also what keeps me away. I use the pages as protection and my shield towards the unwanted and confusing affection. Writing heals me spiritually and mentally. My bipolar channel towards inner peace. This is how my misery turns into therapy.
Copyright 2012 Ta’Mesha Smith