The inner critic protects me from reality and success; It knows best. It reminds me of my hopeless plight, my dark destiny, my night of a thousand storms.
Councillors say, "Examine those thoughts. Challenge them, are they rational? " I nod and smile, and somewhere there is a sparrow in me that wants to sing, that agrees with the blue skies, and the trees, and the wings that have carried it away from the pain.
But then the critic and its minions chatter away, and remind me of failures, they say, "The play has already been written. You're just doing your part- your small walk on part. You don't get to rewrite it. It's been written, it's finished. You being a writer must appreciate irony, isn't it ironic; Thomas, That no matter how bad you want it, you can't have it. It's been decided, it's predestined, long before you were born. You lose, some win, but not you."
I faintly hear the dying song of the sparrow, as I rise once again and stumble towards the abyss.
It feels good to write again. Even though this is a darker theme.