There are still black hours. Sometimes. But not that often. thankfully. Occasionally. Black hours turn to black days. I lie low riding the pain. It's less over more now. Once. Black inspired creativity. Creativity produced doubt and destruction. Self-doubting back to black. Now. Now I cope. Now I hope. Now I create prolifically. I believe in my creativity. Black still visits. Black will always visit. It lurks. Skulking. Stage right. I wait. It takes its unwelcome curtain call. I exit stage left. Cringing. Crying. Cursing. Every dog has its day. One day black will be no more. For me. For. Forward. Falling on deaf ears. Undulations.
There is still music. Music, art and poetry. But no buttered scones for tea.