On the days that I struggle, I question myself and ask myself: What have I done, in this life? What horrors have I committed? What nightmares have I brought to this world?
On the darker days, I am reminded of all the things I have done that weigh on me. On the darker days, those are the days when my vision is clouded with blood and screaming faces. Those are the days when waking nightmares and flashbacks are one and the same.
But there is hope since I have started writing, I am able to distance myself. I am able to objectively examine myself and my past. Writing has enabled me to create a 'space' if you will, room for me to breathe. Room for me to breathe and think things through.
There are still dark days, but there are moments of clarity moments where I am no longer an actor in a memory I can not shake. I can now take on the role of the critic, in a theater full of readers of this blog. Watching the way, the words of my past weave themselves into feelings and fears and all of the things I tried to hide for so long.
I am no longer a slave to the nightmares, I am now the curator in the museum of my darkest secrets. But this museum still comes alive on the darkest days. When that happens I write, and I write. I use the words, I am unable to speak, to combat the exhibits of my personal prison.
I know times will be hard, and I will not always find the words, but I know that there are others out there fighting the same fight as I. As curator I can not let my exhibits dictate my story. I must be the one to weave the tale of the exhibits of my shadows into the epic that I know it is, will be. For someday, peace will find us, still here, still writing. My demons and I are one, and our story has yet to begin.
On the darker days, I am reminded of all the things I have done that weigh on me. On the darker days, those are the days when my vision is clouded with blood and screaming faces. Those are the days when waking nightmares and flashbacks are one and the same.
But there is hope since I have started writing, I am able to distance myself. I am able to objectively examine myself and my past. Writing has enabled me to create a 'space' if you will, room for me to breathe. Room for me to breathe and think things through.
There are still dark days, but there are moments of clarity moments where I am no longer an actor in a memory I can not shake. I can now take on the role of the critic, in a theater full of readers of this blog. Watching the way, the words of my past weave themselves into feelings and fears and all of the things I tried to hide for so long.
I am no longer a slave to the nightmares, I am now the curator in the museum of my darkest secrets. But this museum still comes alive on the darkest days. When that happens I write, and I write. I use the words, I am unable to speak, to combat the exhibits of my personal prison.
I know times will be hard, and I will not always find the words, but I know that there are others out there fighting the same fight as I. As curator I can not let my exhibits dictate my story. I must be the one to weave the tale of the exhibits of my shadows into the epic that I know it is, will be. For someday, peace will find us, still here, still writing. My demons and I are one, and our story has yet to begin.
I like the imagery of you as a curator...because it does put you in control of the story as it unfolds before us.
ReplyDeleteThank you. I wasn't sure if (at the time of writing) it was how felt. I took time to reply because I wanted to be sure of the way I saw it. That is the best way I can out it into words. Its difficult sometimes to put emotions to words and I think I found a way this time.
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