I feel…restless. There’s
something about silence, not true, never true, but being quiet enough to hear
the world. Hums and groans of engines, the chirp or whistle of animals. All
around me the sound of purpose. Everything doing exactly what it’s meant to.
And I am doing nothing. I’m too tired to run, don’t care to read. Why do
something if only for the sake of filling the void.
There is something I should
do. Something of purpose. The story waits to be written, a pen lies, held
between blank pages. But I can’t write the story that I want, of sun on your
face and sweet laughter in your ears. It would be a veneer, easily torn because
it’s only stretched skin over rot.
So I resist, but even the sadness and pain is better than
the deafening void, so I take up the pen, knowing it will never be good.
I write of sadness, of
friends lost and hearts broken, and the guilt “she” feels after asking,
receiving, and rejecting. And she cries.
And it is beautiful. It will
never lift you up, to forget your pain. It will remind you, but you are not
alone.
