A writer’s darkness.

When I finally decided to take the lid off the box, it billowed up like smoke. All my demons contained nice and neat in the corners of that rented space danced their way back into the limitless imagination of my mind.  That cloud wrapped it’s fog around all the still places and shook them until they stirred.  Once awakened the dance began.

All my rituals somehow rendered useless, my ability to cope stifled. So my demons danced. Artfully deconstructing the quiet space I had carved out for myself. Disrupting my serenity. Begging and pleading with me to entertain the racing thoughts never stopping for a moment to let my racing heart catch up. End over end tumbling, never outstretching a hand to break the fall. This darkness was too familiar to turn from.

Logic says I am aware of this free fall and I can at any moment shift my mind from these thoughts and use reason to explain away the whispered lies. And when I do, the whispers turn to shouts and finally I succumb because it’s safe here too… in this madness. It is my own creation. And from it…I create.

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