I’ve heard numerous people describe denial. For me, I didn’t think my life would be defined by: “it” (so I never read into it). The funny thing about the truth is its kiss is so sensual, your interpretation could devastate you. Yet we plea for this version of reality.
For me and mine, my bipolar mind. I’m having trouble with denial. I didn’t want to admit it but I am the odd-man out of ottoman. Truth is I’ve felt like this most of my life. The clever part is how do you explain: ” different” if you don’t know what difference is?
Well, you learn what makes you different. Which consists of learning how definable your illness is. Until you realize… all this time you thought you were in control. However, the truth is I am my illness, and my life is defined by learning to live with it.
(This is where the hero looks in the mirror and sees he’s the villain). The feeling is significant in the fact that your perspective changes and you realize heroes don’t wear masks, and the hypocrisy being I’ve worn one my whole life.
When I wake up Superman is gone, and the man left in his place doesn’t understand he can’t fly. (Yet metaphors still make him smile).
I may be getting used to normality. But I haven’t missed a moment to smile. All the while learning why I cry…
Progress is defined by the urge to not go back to any track.
I feel like I’m crawling out of a trap
