Memoirs Of A Mental Patient

When hope feels like an old wooden boat, worn and weathered, rising and falling with the pull of unforgiving waves, hold on tightly. The sea can be cruel, and it’s easy to lose your footing, to forget your direction. But I promise you these storms don’t last forever. There’s a strange kind of beauty in the depths. The ocean floor can seem peaceful, even mesmerizing, scattered with shimmering pearls and delicate shells, silent in a way that almost feels like a gift of grace. But by the time the storm passes and calm settles in, you may realize you’re no longer floating. You’re sinking now. And down there, in that quiet, no one hears you call, and the way back, if there ever was one, is lost.