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Ways to avoid the Grief Forest

How do you avoid the grief forest?  The dark, pine filled, thorny bushed, vile paths. How do you walk in without getting your skin bruised, toe-stubbed, sometimes a tooth knocked out by the mysterious grief monsters? Maybe don't take the path at all. Go around it, its a longer route, but you'll avoid the wretched grief forest. Or like many, get through the good alternative - the valley of substance. You can sleep your way to the other side. You poke your head into the valley of substance and your mind goes to sleep. Sure, it ruins your body. But its the only way to avoid the darker alleys of the grief forest. Or find a way to fly over or dig under, to the other side. But beware, the wanderers who avoids the grief forest! It follows you - like a walking, breathing monster. When you least expect it, it engulfs you. "Feel me" - it yells into your ears. Sometimes, when you look back, it no longer follows. It would look like it backed away from you. You'd sigh of relie...

The Muse

Remember the time you received a compliment that stuck with you? A compliment that literally changed the course of your life? The one small, rare time someone saw through you and gave you what you wanted? Attention, curiosity, and utmost interest? 
"Why are you obsessed with art? All the scribbles on the corners of your science notebooks? Paint, up and down the big white walls?
The unhealthy obsession with books and pens? What caused all that? "
Well... A compliment, actually.
I was too young to understand everything else, but old enough to know I was a troublemaker. A child who wrecked things and made loud noises. My dad was the type of guy you see on television. Tough, Tall, well-built, and serious. You don't play around with men like him.
  One day, I came back from school, sat down ,took a white sheet of paper and started drawing something. 
This quirk was yet another thing I would have abandoned if not for my dad.
Before I could finish and look back at it with disappointment and think to myself -"Nah.. this isn't for me. I'm never touching the pen again", my dad looked over my shoulder, and into the mess I created and told me these exact words: "That's beautiful . You're really good at this. Back in the day, I used to draw just like you". The man who saw the negatives in everything, liked what I drew? Did the man people don't talk back to say he was just like me?
Everything I drew since has been for him. To impress him. Even though he never saw what I drew again, because I grew up to be more secretive in nature, it's always been for him. For the man that made me fall in love with art, everything I do is for you. The Muse is always You!

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