Maybe I should write more

My mind is a glass dome that holds a violent Storm. A tempest of thoughts, feelings, and ideas
bouncing against the glass and each other. And in the heart of it all a little girl frightened for her life.

Many of the thoughts are scary. The feelings, distressing. The ideas, however, sometimes take
shape. They become concepts, then worlds, then people. People whose stories I should write down.

There's the werewolf, trapped with a curse that leaves her in a body she hates, forced to undergo a
transformation that threatens to rip her mind apart, all the while just wanting to be herself.

There's the cyborg, who, as she becomes more machine, struggles to believes she isn't losing her
humanity, her soul, or what it means to be alive.

There's the pyrokinetic, whose desire for kinship, acceptance, love burns so brightly the inferno
threatens to consume both her, and all those she keeps close.

Maybe I should write about them. Or maybe I should write about people who aren't me.
Maybe some other time.

People ascribe to me many things. Strength, bravery, intelligence, beauty. Sometimes, I almost
believe them. Sometimes, I wish they'd stop.

Let me be ugly, so I don't have to worry what I look like after crying. Let me be stupid, so I don't
need to think endlessly about things beyond my comprehension. Let me be cowardly, so I can hide
and be at peace. Let me be weak, so I have an excuse to drop my burdens.

My ideas are weird, even to me. My feelings are erratic. My thoughts confusing.

But however flattering these ascriptions sometimes may be, however much I simultaneously reject
and cherish them, they do nothing to diminish the Storm. They do nothing to help the little girl who
is covering her face in her lap, always afraid she is going to be swept up and torn apart.

I remember a time, long ago, before the Storm ever began. My mind was an open sky. There was no
endless rain of depression, no razor winds of anxiety.

Only sunshine. Only thick rays of warmth and light piercing into the dome. Only a little girl who
was happy.

And I don't know what will bring the sun back, or if there still even is a sun to bring back at all. I
know that sometimes, the storm rests, on moments I feel safest.

Cuddling up to a girl I love. Singing a song to nobody at all, about nothing that would make sense
to them. The blissful feeling of my wrists restrained against each other behind me. Baths.

There is no sunlight there. But no rain or wind either. Only nothing. Only bliss. Only a little girl
who can look up and see my thoughts standing still, my feelings falling asleep, my ideas smiling in
silence.
And maybe I look at my qualities the wrong way. Maybe I am beautiful regardless of my tears.
Maybe I am smart not in spite of me not being able to figure me out, but because I keep trying.
Maybe the desire to hide doesn't make me cowardly, but rather ignoring it makes me brave.
Maybe I am not weak because I'm about to break under my burdens, but strong because I carried
them for so long.
After all, what use is strength without anything to carry?

My mind makes more sense when I write. Maybe I should write more.