Why is it the dark thoughts, the shadows that hang at the edges of my mind that so easily creep out and stain the page?
Though love and joy may be found they never seem to draw my heart out into words. At least, not in the same way.
It is regret and misery, longing and melancholy that moves my hand to compose
The introspections of my afflictions what could have been or would have been, if only⦠if only.
Perhaps it frees me in some way to trap these long lost deliberations with ink. With a time and date scribbled down on paper. To bother me no more⦠or perhaps, to bother me all the more
I weigh the merits on my scale. To stand firmly on the shore or dip my toes into the water
To let myself sink into that dark place to retrieve some trinket from the depths of my soul. All the while keeping my head above the waves. But what if I tire of treading or the weight of love and sorrow pressed together proves too much sinking me down below the air