They call this post-whoring (Pens, swords, and might)

Somedays all I can do is write.

One entry. Two entries. Three or four entries. It keeps my hands busy. It gives flesh to the voices and brings them into the light. It is the only thing I know how to do - and the only thing I am occasionally good at. It builds the wall around the worst parts of myself, or else it builds the door the monsters can flee through.

My mother was a writer, decades and decades ago. A good writer at that. But somewhere along the line she traded in the pen for a cage. She never realized that a pen can be the very key OUT of that cage.

She tried to destroy my key when she burned my journals. But she also didn't realize that while keys can be hard to find, pens are readily available. There was never a pause in the words I continued to write, no matter how many times she tried to take them away from me.

The pen may not really be mightier than the sword, but what's written lasts far longer than any spilled blood that melts into the earth. I hold onto that as sacred.

I ramble. I babble. I do this to fill the time. The endless hours where I cannot sleep or cannot hide under the blankets, cannot pick up a book, cannot engage in meaningful verbal conversation with Jesse...this is my busywork.

This is also to track the ups and downs, each chasing the other on their heels, hot and heavy breath with teeth just bursting with eagerness to sink themselves into my skull. It raises and falls so fast lately. Typical bi-polar stuff, made less typical by lupus, ungodly medications, and a sleep schedule that resembles a scatter of shotgun shells than anything focused with a scope.

I write so much. I am amazed anyone can keep up on this. I can barely keep up on it myself.

But it keeps my hands busy in those moments when I cannot otherwise keep them shoved under a pillow, to clench and release the softness and comfort.

Mine will never be a peaceful life. It will always include a mind that tortures itself for fun and scars that ache in the winters of the soul. It will always be dotted with bonfires that I must walk straight through to get to the other side.

"I will always fall and rise again,
Venomous and howling,
'Cause I am a survivor....

I will always fall. I will always tumble into the empty crevices of the earth, striking ledges over and over again on the long way down.

And I will always claw my way back up to very top of the hole, heels bleeding, ribs split in pieces, broken fingers clawing into the crumbling earth.

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