I used that line in a poem I recently posted. A stranger. And who is this stranger? Maybe I am in denial. It’s just me in here. And I don’t always like taking responsibility for the words that escape my mind and my lungs.
Depression is a tricky thing. And Anxiety is its partner in crime. At times they make me feel like I will lose it all. Every little relationship I have managed to nourish, in my own pitiful ways. Every bit of success I have somehow been able to grab. I’m afraid I will be left alone with this anger that fills me.
And It fills me to the brim.
Sometimes I just want to run away and go dark. I wonder what kind of art I would be able to create if I had no responsibilities, no one to love me. No one to worry for my state of mind. Would I truly be able to tap into that voice that is buried deep down? Would I be able to save someone? Or myself?
It must be a terrible thing to love a writer.