When the writer forgets the talents she held was in the shape of a pen

I almost forgot how much my soul cherishes writing and how soothing it is to quiet the voices inside my mind. I forgot i was a writer that held talent in the shape of a pen. That voiced the inexpressible, felt the intolerable, and made sense of the incomprehensible. Constantly, Promise is shouting commands and i find myself falling under her scrutiny. Her once so scarce, timid, and unappealing voice has become loud, tempting and a strange form of comfort. I hate when i fall back into her words, holding onto every lingering letter. Following every comma and period, all the way to the end. I had found Christ's voice and for awhile i was deaf to her words, only every now and then catching a glimpse of her in the mirror. Now, it seems as if i were the one being so shamelessly blinded by the lies of others and now aware of the neglect i have left in myself. Hm, i feel ambivalent. Im unable to realize what's real anymore, or what will happen. I hate caring when others don't. I abhor being hurt, and how i always leave myself susceptible to be hurt. i find it pathetic. I was unconsciously unaware when i began digging again, apathetic when i fell into the hole, and completely terrified to stop.. i cant figure out why i still continue to dig for what others might label; my grave. All i know is that im determined to bury all the problems of the past, get somewhere and escape from her. But, how can you out run yourself? Let alone, escape the cage..