Sometimes I let myself wallow in sadness, it’s pathetic I know. Just for a day, so I might pick myself up and stand taller than before. I don’t know if that’s right or wrong, or if there is a right or wrong anymore. I don’t know where the depression comes from. I mean, I do, it’s hereditary. I argue with my demons day to day, bargaining myself a better deal. I’m getting better at bartering, though somehow I always lose out. Pay in salty tears stinging open wounds and an aching heart battered and bruised. A wretched mind, have I. It’s elation catatonic, like an intense drug induced high. But it’s decline so steep and severe I cripple, can’t climb up the smooth stone surface so I descend into excruciating darkness.

Then there is a light. My very own sunshine. Hello, love, will you hold me?

I write best when I’m in a vortex. At my wits end or hopelessly in love. So long as something is consuming me words flow like oilslick in the ocean. Natural as mechanised breathing, smiling in kind to words of sweet nature and a giggle response to naughty phrases murmured into my ear.

So, exhaust me: hang me on your clothesline, beat me with an olive branch, scream until your voice breaks, throw me in an ice bath, dangle me over the balcony, and then love me like the world is all but ending.

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