If it wasn’t for the trouble I keep getting in…I would never have to look back.

I would never have understood that there is someone who holds my hand even when I feel the wind.

But I do know now that I was meant to feel the air and the sea to know that I am not alone.

Yes, trouble is like a ghost in the night, the feeling of terror in my nightmares and escape like the green light across the dock.

It’s that they didn’t understand that this is my perpetual pain.

Why did I have to be so young and receive this wealth of wisdom?

I listened to a professor confess his burdens as he marvelled at a world tearing itself to pieces inside, and I just couldn’t say that this was the calm before the storm.

I shared my honesty with my mother, but will my father understand the burden of those who chase nothing more than green lights?

All writers are gifted with making sadness a figure of beauty.

Tears that are neither sadness or joy but some sort of revelation or euphoria that I will transcend.

Some emotion that is a gateway to saving a dying part of me, but my eyes open before I touch it.

Life imitates art; Gatsby and his creator plunge into a sea of lost dreams and death heralds their fame.

Did they know their tales of decadence would be kept in a glass box?

Yes they idolised their romance, their passions and fast life, but it was all to die for them.

Was it worth it in the end?

To chase fame and then die only being remembered through pages and coloured films in which the universal sadness cannot equate to one ray of saving grace in the grave.

Tell me now, if I live knowing each breath is a gift from GOD will anyone remember me when I’m gone?

What is glory when I am waiting for judgement day?

Singing my song to the wind, give me the wisdom to break this pattern.

Will I end the decade wondering how I ever became the girl I am now?

Will I still be writing about that glimmer of hope I just don’t seem to have?

What do I know about this cautionary tale?

All I speak of is sadness and pain, look into my scars, I am like Gatsby, I am only haunted by the beings that dwell in my mind.

I would never know that at the end of the journey,

I could say something without playing with my words.

Maybe I was playing the game right all along.

I question if GOD made us so beautifully unique and complex, will HE judge us according to these complexities?

Are my thoughts too elusive?

Perhaps I am still writing from the shadows, still waiting for the day to emerge into the sunshine.

Yet each new pain and sorrow drives me back like the current beating against me.

Though it would be so easy to give up, I merely cannot.

They all laugh at me because I was crazy and though I may be insane, it was better to have been a beautiful little fool.

So I will still push on because the fight is honourable, and my heart tells me to move toward my enemies whether or not fear lingers in my veins, it is accompanied by that sheer thrill of attaining a greater glory.

Begin; I fall many times but I will never cease to rise higher than before.