Lingering Fear

I have erased and rewritten the first sentence of this note a few too many times therefore the demonic, soul crushing sting of lacking a tight grasp on yet another cataclysmic wave of creativity has compelled me to have lost count. Writing, I have failed you miserably this past year. The block that you are synonymous with has, since graduation, run away with my desire to color the pages of my notebook with the brilliant course load of mind changing, and thought provoking poetry and short story creating that I grew accustomed to at school. My affair with depression has escalated into the depths of despair that only Elizabeth Wurtzel would know of, and she has documented the world over of the discreet yet wholy subdued pain that only those in our Converse can, with the light that emanates from the heart belonging to the man upstairs, undoubtedly seem to hold the potential to overcome. I wish I were more than just a stray child looking for warmth under her father's crippled wing, ironically balanced by the lack of emotion. I will not pose any questions pertaining to my attachment to the past, instead faithfully I will ponder upon dismissing the relentless anger I hold, which has kept my creativity from flourishing any further. I have painstakingly written his name in the sand that borders my figurative shore, only to watch the sea foam green waves glisten in toxic wonder and abandonment. The cursive I perfected, which lies embedded beneath the grains that lovers in love walk upon, began in the third grade and my intricate lines have yet to be washed away, leaving me muse-less, tarnished, and nothing more or less than a symbol of pure inbred illness; a tantalizing, epic curse which loves the dark and preys upon the essence of those who remain un-forgiven.