Why do I settle for crumbs? A good question indeed. One learns to settle for crumbs when one is fed only crumbs. One then becomes accustomed to those crumbs and regards them with gratefulness. The starvation for more ceases to be a nagging pain and instead becomes a constant companion of grief and self loathing that persists beyond the physical stabbings to a mental beating and an emotional pummeling. The need to be loved for oneself morphs into and absurd yearning just to be seen.

Slowly, shafts of light pierce my defenses, shining through to the other side, rendering me invisible to a world obsessed with beauty and perfection. There is no place for me in such a world as I was cursed to grow twisted, overgrown and lacking all but the average, easily forgotten.

So these crumbs that find there way to me, like day old bread thrown at the feet of the bird with the broken wing, thrown out of pit or curiosity as to how many healthy birds might peck the damaged one to death for daring to partake of the proffered crumbs, these crumbs become life itself to the one left scavenging. They are so few and far between that all must be accepted as if they may be the last of their kind.

When the crumbs are gone, as they always are, and quickly, I walk the halls of loneliness in the heart of the night. Glancing out windows at a sleeping world, listening to the ticking of the clock as it mocks my existence, I wallow in dark thoughts and ponder the reasons for continuing. Time laughs at my dilemma and forgets me with each passing minute. Isolation becomes my dearest friend because she does not abandon me.

Anger wells from deep within the turmoil of my sanity and orders me to write! Write! WRITE! It is my only triumph; the only arena in which I excel and do not fail, as I have failed all else miserably. “Write child” it demands. “Put your heart in the words; bloody and beating and real”. So I write. I write of all that I feel, all that I wish, all that I hope for, and all that I despise. The pen bleeds, unheeded, into parchment. The parchment, absorbing the tears and laughter, gives voice to my soul. It speaks out to the world in a language recognized by any and all who have found themselves scrambling, begging, and scavenging for crumbs.

Why do I settle for crumbs, indeed? Because those crumbs make me a better writer. One cannot be a writer if one has never suffered. One cannot experience pain without a wound or two. Without suffering, there is no story to tell.

Signed,

A writer……