Freedom Through Slight Insanity

I am not perfection, and I never intend to be

To write is to escape

And to escape is to be truly free

The voices in my head have faces and names and brilliant comebacks

I worry when I do not write, they never will come back

I wish to sink into the world of my characters, and find their deepest secrets

Through them, I find my own

Buried deep in my heart, they are small but significant

Their words shout at me if I do not write them down

Or if I try to hide them away

For later in the day, the week, the month

Like Jo March and Anne Shirley, I give myself up to this sacred art

I hope one day to make them proud

The fictional women who pulled me out of a harsh and silent crowd

To write is to breathe

To write is to feel

To write is to cry, and shout, and curl up in a ball

trying to find a way out of the world I’ve trapped myself in

The question I must ask, however:

Am I trapped in theirs

Or mine?