Something heavy, weighing on my heart. Soon the pressure spreads to my throat and makes breathing slow and difficult. Pulse races. Black and white spots in front of my eyes. I'm standing at work, and here goes another one of those stress attacks.
What would I do without writing? If I couldn't vent it here, get it out of me somehow. It's become more and more of my self-medication, seeking comfort and safety in creative things. It's one of many ways to cope in a country where you have to fight for your right to be sick, and be strong to be able to be weak. And where you make everyone believe everything is happy-go-dandy, when in fact, behind the surface, everything cracks. Everything breaks.
I have a smile glued to my face. My friendly voice sounds just alien and strange to me. I wonder many times why no one sees through my hollow laughter. Why no one knows.
People don't think I'm like this. They tell me I'm always the happy soul, always joking and talking. And I am. On the outside. I love being this person, but there is another, darker side of me that also has me in its grasp, and I'm getting tired of fighting it.
Sick of the voices in my head, but if I didn't ponder and question things I'd be a vegetable instead, which I completely dread;
POET in the DESPITE EVERYTHING GOING ON, SLIGHTLY HOPEFUL JAR
No comments:
Post a Comment
For Dust And Memories