A Simple World

My mind has been blank for months. The thoughts that used to come so easily, flowing from mind to hand to pen to paper, are gone. I, like the drowning man, must struggle for the right words.

When did this start? When I chose to be happy - when I made the decision to walk away from the hurt and the pain. When I allowed myself to unleash my anger, instead of maintaining the facade that holds it in. I walked away from the blood spilled in the name of making the world a slightly better place, and in doing so I walked away from my muse, my inspiration.

I'm beginning to understand that tragedy is a bedfellow to motivation. We are driven not by will, but by necessity. We are pushed along by sorrow and pain, and the most famous works of our time have been written by the walking wounded. The fuel for the imagination is burned from the hearts of the depressed.

The world I once knew so intimately is now foreign to me. The sun is too bright on this side of the twilight - I much prefer the night. The jagged lines that cross the faces of the people I know are like the too-real smiles of porcelain dolls - my heart tells me they are but masks, but I can no longer tell the difference. The world I knew was fake is becoming real, while the real world of tragedy sinks behind the curtains.

They once told me that the world was a simple place. The pond is very deep; placing my foot on the ice, I see it only as a puddle.