I’ve been a writer ever since this passion of mine conceived itself deep inside the recesses of my soul. The first time I picked up the pen and yellow paper purposelessly, I put the tip of my pen into that processed refined piece of leaf and wandered.
Times like these though – they don’t bring out the best in me. Difficult times. Times of trying. Times of perplex.
Times of burning and torment.
These are times that I just want to get away. To refresh my soul.
But at the same time I’m drawn to the longing of something amiss.
Two in particular.
I gravely desire to see, to hear, to touch, even to smell. To be at the presence of.
But I can’t. Not like this. Not with all this in me. With all these nibbling at me.
With all this about to swallow me whole.
I was at the brink of jumping into a dark hole where there is no return. I was at the edge.
The light found me. It showed me the way. It held my hand and walked me home.
Ever so slowly. Ever so gently.
My soul is miles away from my heart. Ironic isn’t it?
It’s okay. I don’t understand it either.
Tonight a green bottle keeps me company.
Tomorrow’s another day to forget.
Times like these are hard to get by.