Soul: Free to good home. Slightly tortured. Needs a Little TLC

 
  "Don't stop writing." This is the condition for the condition my condition is in currently. So, here I am with yet another journal. Pleather. Pink. Lined sheets. All of them so soft and fresh. I flip my thumb through the pages and close my eyes as I bring my nose close and smell the sweet now dry pulpy smell. I'm reminded of Curve for men. The sweet sting that the pages of a new notebook leave in my nostrils is the same sweet sting that the cologne does for me. I'd die in the arms of a librarian wearing that scent.

   I've made a promise to my soul as well the soul of the only other adult who's opinion of me matters. "I won't stop writing." I will use my words as an outlet. If I didn't all of the crazy people inside of my head would lose their s**t and it's happened before and sister it ain't pretty.

   So many other believe in my writing more than I do. It's amazing.
My writing scares me a bit. Sometimes my head is full of th craziest things I have to get out. My mind is like being on drugs without the expensive upkeep. I hope that people will always be touched in som way by what I do or say but at times, it's to much for me to handle that they are.

   Maybe that is the reason I write. Maybe that is the reason most writers do. There is a certain amount of annonymity a wrtiter holds in comparison to an actor, singer or dancer.

   Writers would rather trade thier words for others laughter or tears and never turn back and look at the fortune they missed out on because of it. Writing isn't easy for alot of people.

  For me, it is my only link to the sane person who still has a tiny little corner in the clusterfuck of cubicles that I imagine by brain to be. There a ton of them. One for the anger department (which is has candy wrappers and beer cans stewn all about)one for the love department (which is decorated pink and is covered in pictures of "the one" and always smells like gin and rosewater perfume) one for the fear department (the phone is always ringing at this desk, but the April who works there never picks it up, she prefers to text) one for the mother department (there isn't an April in there all day. She arrives early with a diaper bag, a gym back, a purse and a lunchbox.  She puts up a sign that says, "out running errands" early in the day and she doesn't come back until closing time). There are alot more of them. One who cooks (always something spicy with dessert included). One who sings (until you catch her... then she stops) One who paints and draws (she is the always smiling and covered in some sort of artistic goop like clay or acrylic and wears concert tees, red lipstick and smokes menthols while the boys flirt with her even though they don't stand a chance)

  Then, there is the one who writes. Her desk is pushed into the farthest corner of the office that it can be. She has photos of children on the wall that she took from the Mother Cubicle in October and tons of post it notes with secret codes and passwords that the fear department always forgets. The long drawer to her desk beneath her keyboard is filled with pens, markers, pencils and other random desk junk, but they are neat and tidy in case the art department ever needs them, she can have them out in a flash. She keeps a poloraid as well as an SLR handy in case she should decide to venture out and visions to her pieces, but the love department usually just wants to take pictures of her boyfriend with them so she doesn't use it often.  From behind the speaker where she softly plays a variety of music from Kanye West to Tanya Tucker and back to Mozart again sits a small statue of Donna Troy Wonder Girl. Her long black hair, red lips, muscular arms and golden lasso looked menacing in the anger department so she slide it out in her coat pocket one day. Anger never noticed it was gone and therefore never got the chance to throw it across the room in a fit. Her nameplate below the monitor claims her as genius. As she writes this, the reader wonders: is she?? The one who writes smirks and shrugs and says, "nah...."