This Is Me

(This is written in the form of prose poetry)

Now you see, there’s more than one thing that makes me, me. My past is a mixture of success, struggle and slippery sanity. It all came in waves bringing events that have accumulated over time creating a mess of layers, each having a lock with a key. I will compare these layers in their entirety, to a diary, each layer is a page and each page has secrets and emotions that are stuck on that page, written in an ink that will never fade. Each event has its own page, but each page contains the outcome of the said event. Let’s start with my struggles, to get them out of the way. It started in roughly the second grade. Kids can be horrible, that much I know. The hateful words they forced upon me were burnt into the cover of my diary. That caused a problem you see, for the only way I could get into my diary is to get through the cover. The hateful words began to make it as if I could not get into those good pages of that diary, because when I tried, I could only see the words of hatred they had forced upon me. As you could assume, being only able to see those horrible words created a dark cloud over me. This cloud continued to cover me for years and the shadow of this cloud caused my brain to accept darkness, since that is what it had grown accustom to. Obviously nothing good can come out of this altered state of perception but; somehow, I remained hopeful. I was hopeful for this cloud to break, and the warm rays of joy, love and beauty to overcome me. I wished that they would consume me, and take every ounce of suffering away, bringing me to a world of color and bliss. As time progressed, the cloud began to fade, allowing small rays to shoot down and fuel my soul for just another day. That in itself was a success. I somehow managed to outlast that damned cloud. Now, on those days that the cloud is faded, those words making it hard for me to see past the hatred and pain, and now barely visible. Those warm memories, that have been locked away so long that dust now covers the arches of my a’s and the dots above by I’s, but the ink hasn’t faded. I’m baffled at this point; you see years have passed and any normal ink would be faded, along with the yellowing pages. But this ink hasn’t lost its strength. This ink is me. That sounds insane I know, but my slippery sanity has allowed me to understand what this means. The ink represents me, for we both fought a battle for years. We both wouldn’t let time fade us away. I am a fighter, and a survivor. I aim for the sky, but won’t stop until I’ve seen every star. I aim to help not only myself but those around me. I am more than what the cover of my diary show. I am more than the pages that tell of pain and suffering. I am more than I ever expected to be, but most of all, I am me.