Wednesday, May 6, 2015

The Path

I already have about three stories (future books) going at once, but when an idea for a new story rushes through my brain refusing to leave until noticed, I have to start writing.  Here is a new piece of writing that will turn into a full blown story soon.  The working title is The Path; I have to wait for it to name itself.  The good news is that it won't stay this dark. It's about hope, healing, and the power of friendship and love.


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It always happens when everything seems to be going well, when everything is “right” and good. That’s when the depression grabs hold with both fists, latching on to the neurons in my brain with such force as to block out everything else worth thinking and feeling. I’ve tried in the past to hold on to the positive and happy thoughts, but they melt away leaving only a faint residue of hope behind. Life had been better these past few weeks. I found a job, an apartment, and a new friend all in the matter of a few days, but that’s when everything turned as sour as a rotting lemon. I might as well sprinkle some salt on for good measure.

The self-doubt and loathing settle in and take comfort in my misery. The more the hate builds, the more comfortable the depression. My mother’s voice comes back to me often, “Just think happy thoughts.” Her voice is sweet and confident. Her resolute determination to fix me with those simple words is like acid being poured on my bleeding heart. Just go to hell! She has no idea how damaging those simple words are. She doesn’t know depression. She has never had intimate dates with despair or kissed its hot, hungry lips. She has never lost herself in the depths of its soul-searing gaze or had her body succumb to its devouring touch. She has never nestled in its warm, welcoming embrace to have all reason melt away and vanish, leaving a vacant soul behind.

So many times I walk in a haze of dark loneliness. I stumble along the sidewalk oblivious to all around me but the shroud of darkness that looms above my head and lingers around my heart. I know what he wants. I know what he is demanding of me. He wants me to tell his story.  How do I do that when I don’t even know my own? My story began years ago and has been a tangled mass of here and there, regrets and hopes, pain and joy, but when will I see it take shape in linear form.  My path has been a tangled labyrinth of single events detached from the continuity of a life story.




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