Random Excerpts of a Bipolar Soul

Mask

I lifted my ever present mask from my face today and I saw my truth, my tragedy. My hair tumbled down my back framing the very face of sorrow. I realize now I am forever to reap from the Pandora's box that I have so foolishly opened. The most tragic thing that I have realized, is my box, when opened a second time, was empty of hope. With nothing to heal my broken soul, I have already died a thousand deaths in my heart, till I have become nothing but a shell of all the things pain has left behind. Hate and rage fill the empty hole where my heart once was. Rage at having been so foolish I have been to let my hate grow in my soul making it burn so black that nothing can ever put it to rest. Hate for the fact that I can only feel hate. I see other things hidden within the slopes of my face. Shame, for letting what others have done to me, make me who I am now. To let weakness define me and harden my heart to those who only wish love upon me. For turning my face away for cowardice. Afraid to always lose what I come love, and in turn losing it anyways because of being held back by my inadequacies. I see pride in the shadows of my shoulders and the curve of my neck. A pride that binds my hands and feet and voice from screaming out for help. But where I see pride I see great loss that makes my chin tremble with sadness. I see my brow turned down in despair for not being able to fix what's so broken within myself. I see my feet unsteady beneath me, legs that are weak at the knees constantly threatening to buckle beneath the weight of my own transgressions and broken heartedness my hands falling uselessly by my side. I see my mouth unable to even word the emptiness that pulses through my veins burning hot with anger and resentment and such total despair enough to pull a kingdom to its knees, but I'm still standing before the mirror taking in my true face. Still standing calling out to my God even though he has remained silent in my turmoil giving me no comfort or shelter like the good book promises. He does not hear me and I am deserving of this, I know. It is why my lungs clumsily collapse as I weep with such abandon because I myself have been abandoned as leaves before a tree in the fall. I could not let go of my pain and it turned to anger and hate and I could not let go of those either and in doing so I have lost my grasp on my happiness. And just like the wind in the moors it has been lost to me forever.