I've spoken of what the early days were like. I've shared of the undertow that drew me out to sea. I fought back and found lessons in the calm of the salty sprawl. The sea didn't swallow me, but washed me clean. It healed wounds. The air one breathes after being tossed below the waves, rolled amongst the directionless wash of salt water is sweeter than all things. You gasp for it because you need it so desperately and then you sit in the sand watching the tide rise and fall only to gain a new voice in knowing that it's what shaped you...I am the shattered glass that has become smooth and whose edges are no longer poised to do damage. I can sit and feel like the sand understands the road I've taken. It's seen many a man thrown ashore only to reenter, on a moonless night as the current takes them down for one last ride. Farewell you lost souls. I shall not be joining you this time.
Sometimes words just don't end up as eloquently written as I'd like them to be. I had so much driving my writing in the beginning. I needed to write because it was the only outlet I had that allowed the amount of fear I felt to dissipate while rebuilding a demolished life.
Peace, love and strength were what I begged for as I crawled out of hell. There were moments of peace. I was surrounded by love. In those things I found strength. I asked and, to me, it was given.
Now to find a way to give the best of who I am.
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