Wednesday, May 27, 2015


"I feel like myself again," I said.

"Which is what?" asked the psychiatrist.

"I feel good, I feel happy. Sometimes I think, hey, maybe the depression won't come back."

She looked at me, head tilted, pen poised over paper. She gave a wry smile that wasn't really a smile.

"It'll come back," she said.


The little girl had a pencil 
and found that whatever she wrote about, she became

So she wrote about being brave
And being strong, steadfast, and true

She wrote about mysteries and adventures
Through foggy swampland and desolate forests 

Over craggy mountaintops and wind-whipped deserts
Where she, the valiant heroine would press on 

Despite threats to her mortality, to her body and soul 
Nothing could harm her 

For she was embodied with a magical power 
That burned from within 

And it could never be extinguished
Not with the wind from ten thousand mountains 
And the torrents from ten thousand storms.

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