Depth

A week ago, I was a typing, writing, creatively motivated individual.
This week I am an empty vast of writing haphazardness.
Is there a drug for neurotic writing disease?

Need an example of neurotic writing disease? I typed this little mixture this morning, indicative of my mood? Absoulutely~~

There's something here inside me that I cannot assign.
Although, I desire a label.
It doesn't claim a word and won't project a purpose.
It's what I wish I could share the most.

Thou shall not feel my dirty little secrets.

Me and You darling, together in tragic mistakes.

That train of thought and words go on and on, in words after words.
A disease I tell you, incurable and uncontrollable.
Although, I have an excuse this week. I'm all about the triggers. Triggers are indicative of my mood of writing. Like a woman with PMS, my writing follows up and down, a life of it's own, within it's own moods.

Words from my horizon on Sunday and during this week, set the motion of self reflection, questions and temperamental writing. Which of course is perplexing, because the words from my horizon were welcomed, wonderful and appreciated. Absorbed with enthusiasm and gratefulness.

       I was proposed with a question this week. I was asked, "The year is coming to an end. Are you happy with what's happened this year and where you are right now." That type of question is like pulling a trigger on a loaded gun.

       In March I stood at the intersection of choice. Two paths that lead in different directions. One I had been marching on for some time and one I had been coveting from a distance. A true test of mental courage and life changing chances.

I failed myself that month, I failed my horizon and I failed my choices. I hung my head and continued on the path that I had hoped so desperately to remove myself from. 

       Granted, that may sound rather steep, but, it's a fact. This week, I've revisited that time. Not only in my online journal, but in my handwritten journals. I've read a passage I wrote in my handwritten journal several times this week, trying to understand my motivations and thought process the week absolution never came. I've realized now, that I let fears dictate my choices during my moments of change. I allowed circumstance and obligation to override heart and dreams. Fear. I became a coward. It's a fact, written in relic form, and carved in my history. There's no Band-aide or reconstruction that can modify my past. That frankly irritates me this week and provokes my writing.

       I've also been thinking a lot about the Judith Heartsong Artsy contest. I'm in such a trigger induced mood this week, the only things that come to mind are of negative light. That is not good. I'm also a week behind in catching up with everyone's journals. I bow for understanding and will catch up with everyone soon.

       I'm unaware of the depth, which I can write each time I sit down.

When a marked me, is to emerge,
The reasons are of belief. In face of the darkness and chance.
There is one person.
From flat on my back, I have seen where the darkness hinders and the light gives graceful reprieve.
I want to move on, hand in hand with my passion.
What do I know
through the shame and the grief, is a combination of years and hope.
I still hold onto belief.
I will test the hands of time for someone to see me
Surface of life, beneath my belief, continues with real moments and conflicting motivations.
There is one person, who likes the way I keep score.
Something real and something purposeful is all that you see and all that is ME.
Me and You darling, together in tragic mistakes.
Wanted, cherished pieces of me.