Shrouded Clarity

In the morning it hits me like an intense bolt of lightning, that feeling of despair hitting every corner of my weak mind. Every thought pushing into the little optimism I have left, every morsel of hope, shattered by the incoming droves of demons, with their gleeful smirks and power to create such torment. And there’s me standing, looking at the sky, wishing it would swallow me up.

The haze in my mind is like a thick fog, covering all that is there. But I seem to manage to write, I seem to manage to weave enough words to create something. I write to create pieces of magic, I write to connect with the world. Music helps me to function, it’s a deterrent but also a wonderful mechanism.

And on those days where I feel like crying tears of despair, I try to empty my mind onto the page through stories. Stories of hurt, stories that do hit against the grain of tranquillity but don’t quite reach those glitzy, vibrant, tones. I do try to walk with direction. I hate it when I stumble off aimlessly, disenchanted by a world tangled in hate.

Depression does eat at me, it feasts on my cognition, driving in and out, riffling through and leaving me prone to fall for alcohols addictive influence. It turns me into a cruel person and it alters my persona, turning me into a character reminiscent of Jekyll and Hyde. And who wants to live like that? Torturing themselves through alcohol, embarking on creating misery for those that try to help.

I’m a broken man at times, I don’t think I can be mended fully. My heart has taken such blows, my innocence is breaking too, I’m overly exposed to ruin. This might be a pessimistic route I am taking, but it’s the way these thoughts rule me, their iron fists bashing my mind, their controlling nature.

But some days I’m energetic and awake. Focused on my work, totally alert and ready to tackle what comes my way. These are the days where I’m in charge and productive, writing stories, writing articles, sending work to publishers, and enjoying what I do. I’m a writer. I think I was destined to be one. I write every day. And since the death of my parents, I have written endlessly for years, honing my skills and trying to make sense of it all.

I have been published in music writing and short story writing. But I hope to write a novel, showcase my skills and make something of myself. I know it’s a difficult undertaking, a shot in the dark, but I must compete, I must overthrow this depression and just lose myself in the words. I know it will be a long time before I master writing, but I feel I’m doing okay at the moment. Writing is hard, but a substantial amount of people think it’s an easy task. It’s not, writing can be like gnawing through steel.

I am going to last the stretch. I must commit myself and be disciplined. I must organise my words into majestic bundles, use them as my medicine. They’re wonderful things, they take us places, and they infuse our minds, and keep us in a state of awe. A piece of writing can do that, it can drive you, and it can make you laugh or cry.

As I sit here, I feel the gloom has lifted a little. I feel my heart is beating normally and my state of mind is calm. I think it’s the words, those beautiful words which are keeping me from sobbing my heart out. They’re truly on song today.