That is the beauty and the curse of writing.
It helps me erase who I was,but confines me to who I am.
It helps me mask my pain from the piercing gaze of the
world, yet, it leaves me vulnerable to my own darkest face.
It saves me the trouble of explaining things to
everyone, yet, pushes me towards a confrontation with my self.
It gives me answers that questions cannot question. Yet,
it leaves behind a search that just does not end.
It tells me I can share my pain with the world, while
reminding me that there are some burdens that need to be borne alone.
It has won me admiration, awe and applause. Even love.
But it fails to explain the sense of loss, of emptiness, of inadequacy that has
come to settle inside me.
Writing fills me with all I need, but it has taken away
all I had...........
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