I am infatuated with my depression and craziness,
I understand Sylvia’s expression.
I have been at the edge,
thoughts of death in my head.
Reality slips in,
thoughts of those who care,
keeps me here.
When I was younger,
the prime of my youth,
dreams were dashed.I had no reason to live.
Invisible, told I was beyond repair.
I feared I would never be found.
Silence spoken charges the soul.
Beauty moves the wind,
landing on the lips of a rose.
I was given an invitation to be part of The Nutcracker production in third grade and told no by my mother. I still dream of dancing. There is nothing in this world to replace those wings. Within, I still mourn when I go to a Ballet.
I hid in my room to practice, dreaming of making it in New York. Nothing was too daunting. I would rise on my toes, piroutte, with splendor, rigorously demanding more of myself. The music rousing emotions. I flew and noticed nothing but the music. No one existed in my world.
I try to write with as much passion. I certainly would rather dance than speak. I feel exposed writing and unable to remove myself from people’s stares. Self-confidence lacking unless I’m part of the atmosphere.
I have been in therapy for a long time and that experience has loosened the chains that bound me in fear. The rope around my neck, the taunts of my voices. It is a brave experience to lay bare my vulnerability. My dance. When thought in that way I am free, it washes over me. Resurrects, a broken girl made whole. A clay pot repaired with gold, as precious as any applause. Actually I refrain from the applause, not because I am not grateful, rather the sadness it invokes. The lost dreams, a reminder of what could have been. The infatuation with my depression exists. The craziness rising, energy to keep going. To never give up.