Wednesday, October 14, 2015



Many people never get the chance to tell the world their story while they're barely breathing. The truth is, people are unable to compose their thoughts, much less express their pain in practical words. Some of us can't survive our demons.
Most people hide―self medicate―use their ego as a shield.
I've seen it a million times.
They're always trying to re-invent the wheel on how to deal with their pain.

The most notorious of them, they take on the established character of a 'victim' as their stimulus. With their enormous wounds, they hide their grief in the shadows and call it survival, rather than letting the screams and tears come out of their pores like a cancer by using a keyboard or ink as a scalpel. But not me, not you, because we are the lucky ones.

We writers are unable to keep our poison in. We bleed out our pain between our fingers with words perfectly strung up into an anecdote. It's embedded within our skin, our blood, deep in the marrow of our bones. We have written out history on the worst acts of humanity that read like a love song on a piece of paper.
Each one of us: the writer, novelist, poet, biographer, columnist, editor, essayist, screenwriter, journalist, ghostwriter, we are the lucky ones. The blessed ones. The wizards of magical prose. We write about our visions, our life lessons, our own wounds, our nightmares, in a novel, an article, or a poem sparked by our imagination. Composing a story that can touch millions of souls is like giving life to another being. If we can complete our work being straight, sane, and sober, we, are the lucky ones.

― LRAEBROWN © 2014

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