I only seem to be able to write about bad things and I guess I know why. I write to survive but not in the “need to put food on the table” sense, more in the “need to save whatever sanity I have left” sense. Writing de-clutters and sorts all of the feelings I’ve stuffed away, wanting to believe I’ll need them all again someday. Writing shouts, “Enough!” when my thoughts come at me all at once, grating on my nerves like the whining demands of eight persistent children and I refuse to give in. Writing gives voice to the helplessness trapped in the depths of my soul and a hand to pull it out. Sometimes when I write, my mind is a fountain . Sometimes it’s a dry well but I’m thirsty so I have no choice but to try and see what comes up. Writing soothes the beast inside and awakens my potential. Writing gives birth to hope within my nightmare and puts my demons down for a nap so I can breathe for a few moments. Writing saves my life over and over again.