I haven’t really written anything in the past month. I used to love it. I could write about anything. Give me the color of the trees. The smell of the hot sun on the pavement.
I liked studying my muses. I took them with me to bed. I thought all day of how to make them better. I was comforted in my head when I felt alone. I felt alone, quite a bit.
And it’s not for the lack of actual people around me, no. I am so fortune to have my loved ones. Living with this mental illness sometimes kept me lonley. I feel like I am the disease. I paint everything selfishly black if I am depressed. I’ll color everything bright pink, everything is neon when I am manic. I don’t want to be it anymore.