I used to write stories

I used to write stories.

I used to relish in literature; crafting worlds and bringing kingdoms to their knees. I used to write about monsters; magic; queens. But the love of the stories I was creating flatlined. I felt abandoned by myself. Why had my mind thrown them aside? They were a lifeline. I needed them to stay sane. They were my light on a dark day. A place to run to and escape.

Every time I tried to type them out my fingers would freeze. I could no longer see the glittering crowns; the godly storms; the cities under siege. I only saw me. And the dark.
The oblivion that had been sneaking in, took hold of everything all at once. The pain I pushed down pushed its way up and screamed at the top of its lungs. I felt isolated and misunderstood by the raging fires boiling my blood.
I picked up a pen and scolded myself for ever thinking I would amount to anything. I berated my own brain and wrote about the shadows inside and outside of me. Sometimes, I wrote about the light; love; the joys of life. I started to explore myself by writing about anything. Everything.

Writing is my space to be entirely human.

I am teaching myself that it is okay to have limitations; weaknesses; pain. I am teaching myself not to be afraid. The dark always comes after light but the light returns every damned time.