Two Choices

I had paper and I had my rage and I had two choices: write or kill, write or murder, myself. I like to think of writing as having helped me survive and commit suicide. Whenever I have to deal with my family I feel like I have committed suicide and this is my view from heaven. I am free to watch them from the clouds. But I must keep writing to stay up there, safe from the radioactivity, the poison below, being played out in the relentless and dreadful drama called their lives.