Deep within our throats there is this raw cry we refuse to let out. We keep it there, all the way in our stomachs until it aches and churns with grief, until walking becomes a mindless action, and seeing is done through a blurred lense. Where shapes and colors once danced before our eyes, now lie an endless stream of gray and gloom.

There is no escape, or at least that is what despair tells us. That is what our mind convinces us to believe. Usually the things our mind whispers into our troubled being are troubled thoughts full of untruth. We trust them because of our trauma. Because of this dark pit of shadow that taunts us and holds us fearfully in place.

It doesn’t have to remain that way. Deep down or even at the surface, we know it. Our pasts do not shape us, they are the way we win our battles. But nothing is ever won with anyone bottling something up, letting their feelings sit and fester.

Still, we do.