Everyone contains a history; hidden and unread.
My story means something to me and I write it for me, knowing most of what I have to say means nothing to you. The story is mine but it also belongs to the world (in a very small way). As yours…
A found diary
hidden for years
resurfaced, breaking through
piles of days
rising to form -a mountain called me (and you).
I stand at this crossroad, where once I crouched, sunk often to a corpse, crawling in search of water. This moment contains burnt words, fire a destroyer, put out by flowing tears. The flames and smoke rose to God, a sacrifice, while the ash returned to lay a blanket over the earth.
I have been given another chance to be, more than once, and each aimless attempt lies dormant. A depressed state does not keep the world from moving forward, it keeps the person on the sideline, looking in, in apprehension, the thought to return stings.
Thoughts of being, being a memory to someone.
From the ash, I purposely construct a year of days. Hope holds on, to speed through the sky, come back to earth. This year is a challenge for me. If you deal with depression and anxiety you may understand my story may mimic your story.
All of life is inspiration to change the rubble into grace. Perhaps you may see yourself on this same path, looking at the same sun and wondering about leaves of the past. I acknowledge not everything is truth but it resembles it just the same. Here and here are sample blog posts, of what I explore, while looking for answers. This place is where the roads converge, while living on a borderline, trying to cross. 2.4.2017