It's all a tangled up mess of the best and the worst of times. I suppose any discovery is this way, as the familiarity of tradition and old persuasions weighs down the flight of the dream birthing into reality. Every time I think I'm tapping the glass ceiling on this new freedom I shatter right through beyond whatever wild imagination I conjured of this self-discovery thing. For a while I thought I lost my muse, so muted did the whirring of my thoughts become. There was nothing to write because I was just happy being myself.
Creativity does seem indicative of chaos. It is in the tornado and the hail and the typhoon that new beauty floats up like so much glittery dross from the holding tanks of life. You wouldn't expect something so rare to buoy up out of old filth.
I keep on stirring it up, looking for the diamonds in the rough that have been wrought out of all this...shit. Layer after layer old frowns peel off and when I am alone I am just me. It's the first time in my memory that I haven't had to lie to anyone to tolerate myself. Not even to myself. Honesty comes at a price, sure, but worth it, every penny.