Where do you go when there's so much you want to tell someone but the words will not come? When it is a struggle to write each letter as it seems to trickle across the screen. This screaming voice inside overwhelming me wanting to convey what is so deep and buried within the recesses of ones mind yet so close that it breaths every breath with you in a place never touched or seen by anyone.

My mind is an open trench that goes down for what seems like and eternity where there within lies what haunts us so. Trying to find a way to climb up the trench one word--one moment at a time.

Sometimes the rocks edges are so sharp as glass that it cuts with every reach, every slightest movement, with every thought. Sometimes it is like ice so dangerous and every word spoken we slide back making a fall inevitable, reinforcing the marks and bruises of a time before.

Sometimes it is like mud--trudging as though quicksand is pulling with every word written. One word is like putting yourself in drive and the wheel spinning around and around never getting out what needs to go forth.

Sometimes the rains come and drwon out what we are trying to say, making it hard to look up--as it falls. The winds blow pushing back the words echoing through our mind.

Inside voices echoing to the furthest reaches of my mind. Words of many vying to be heard, strong yet afraid. At times intertwining making it hard to understand. Screaming that little four letter word HELP somewhere in the midst of it all.

And somehow wishing that someone could hear what seems to seep through between the lines that we cannot find words or courage to say. Sometimes it is those words that speak the loudest--that says so desperately what needs said but is the most terrifying of what lies within.

The silence speaks volumes of what eyes scream. Each word written here in silence tells more than you know, maybe more than those who writes it. Hiding within yet peering out just enough so someone knows we are here--retracting back as quickly so not to get caught.

Hoping somewhere between--the words make some sort of sense as one by one they are opening a door never opened before.

Silence echoing--is this a dream? We do not want to wake up. Are you real or do you exist within this dream? Sometimes feeling so small where time seems to freeze in different frames.

Going frame to frame with nothing inbetween--is it there where things were so much that the point of being ones self became no longer possible, that the moments slipped away into one another?

Time stopped, yet kept going somewhere--somehow. Minutes, hours, days, months--gone--yet here, somewhere among the frames, sometimes feeling as though grasping for air.

Fragments and pieces of what one was lies in these frames, where time stands still. But like the words that slip out between the lines. so it is between the frames that one sees the atrocious atrocities that stop one from being one.

To take one's self back to that point where the pain was so great one could not be is where the connection between the frames lies. But to get there, the frames come alive--breathing stops at that given point where connection was made and the memory comes right where you left.

It is there where the pain was so much that one accepts back ones self and acknowledges the truths so locked away within the selves. Taking back the breath you left where terror survives, consumes every part of our being. The breath that hurt so much, it went away.

Sometimes we are afraid that we will wake up and you all will be but a dream. The little girl is still there lying on that place where the chains held her and that she knows she is next.

The place where all good was taken and nothng is real except those whose words echo loudly "never tell" and once again everything stops and words receed except one letter at a time trying to form what runs so deep so that somehow you will know we are still here.

These words come from deep inside. The door we are opening isso heavy. We are all so terrified of what lies between the frames. It has been so dark that even the slightest sliver of light hurts our eyes.

The light shining on the room illuminates what has been hidden. It is terrifying and suffocating at the sane time. Yet, inside knowing the way out is exposing the darkness and opening up that which is hidden. To stop the secrets, they have told.

Sometimes thinking to tell will kill me but realizing they are killing me already. Grasping that maybe telling will somehow release the hold they are strangling me with.

purplesecrets