I’ve heard tell of the most broken people being the most beautiful. There is something in them that reverberates reality and somehow makes flowers bloom.

I don’t think a person’s psychological malaise is a reliable barometer to measure beauty. Suicidal people aren’t necessarily angels who just want to return home. They’re not always sad. They just want stand in the face of reality and deprive it of the right to hurt them.

All the florid prose in the world can’t justify mental illness. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again. Insanity is real but maybe it’s just art. Could it be possible that crazy people are just artists? Is their creativity bigger than them?

I’m not a threat to anyone. I’m not violent. I’m not unhinged. I’m just sick. It’s the sickness that makes everyone feel awkward and uncomfortable. It’s a condition makes me wildly emotional, and sensitive.

I walked among the water this morning on American soil. I can be here as long as I pay a tax. And it’s not money, just a part of me that means nothing to me.

This is a beautiful place. The irony is not lost on me.

For about thirty minutes I got lost in the music. It was beautiful. I was free. All the demons from my past were on a coffee break. Life stood before me in it’s most beautiful form and I was humbled, and honoured to be accepted by its majestic grace.

I sang along softly to to my own songs, which are my favourite thing in the world to listen to. They’re the soundtrack of my life. The way the light touched the water was beautiful.

Until it wasn’t.

The illumination of sorts wasn’t there to make nice. It was not my friend. The halogen of pale foreboding was a warning. It was there to remind me that everyone I love was going to die someday.

The light and I made eye contact. I’ve never been one to let anything or anyone stare me down. So the ugly side of me that has an ego, held its vapid gaze.

It wasn’t the best tactic. Standing my ground against an incandescent reminder of my failings, life’s fangs, and dementedness was a dangercunt. The light wasn’t responding to my intimidation. Still I don’t back down, even terrified.

And when I’m terrified, that’s when the real magic happens. I was so scared that my mental ferality started to do it’s thing.

Despite the light’s most diabolical intent I absorbed its promises like a flame on on a moth’s gossamer dreams. Sure, I was alone in the universe. Granted, I would never be more than a dancing bear and concubine for a woman. There was no chance in Hell, Michigan fleeting fairy tale moments would last.

I don’t need my scars kissed. When is too much enough?

It’s time to stop trying to get better. It’s time to accept what I am. I’m not powerful, nor willful enough, for other people’s agendas.

When did mental illness become cool? Why do people want to be sick?

If everyone knew how much mental illness sucked then I doubt they would choose to have it for attention.