The rain’s washed most of the snow away, and the place seems to have lost its lustre. When it was all covered with snow, it was almost enough to make me believe in magic. Now everything is back to dreary again: the never-ending rain, the grey clouds, the dampness. Buildings just look old and drab. The rain came, and took away the magic.

What happens when you stop dreaming? Does your soul die along with your dreams? Vanishing into the embers of the night, like ashes in the wind. No longer tangible, existing only in memory.

The heart-and-body-wrenching sobs surprised even herself. Caught unawares, she thought that must have been a physical rendition of a ‘deer in headlights’ reaction. At first, she thought she was just caught up with the story. But as the sobs become more pronounced, and she feels her body shaking from her attempts at trying to hold those emotions in, she grew more confused.

Ultimately, her fear grew.

What does this all mean?

In the quiet of night, I love to hear the cat breathing.
In deep sleep, she slumbers on the bed, sniffling softly.
Reminding me that I’m not all alone in this world -
as I sometimes believe.
That in the end, she’ll still be there.
Slumbering.

The walls are closing in;
and yet they’re not.
She feels like she’s drowning;
but she’s really not.
They come from the darkness,
these thoughts and emotions
that she’s gotten used to like
second skin;
but this time is different.
This time they come through light.
She can but scream in silence
knowing no one will hear.
No one will come.

When love is reciprocated, it is a happiness shared by two. When it isn’t, it can be the loneliest existence in the world.

But lonely as that may be, life must go on.

No more. Enough. She’s done.
She should’ve known better;
but in a moment of insanity,
she didn’t.

She let emotions take control.
A moment of insanity.
A moment of weakness.
She let him in.

Like a burglar climbing in,
through a broken window.
Or one accidentally left open.
She let him in.

Like the burglar,
he stole everything.
She’s done. Enough.
It needs to stop. Now.

We are all afraid -
of the dark,
of being alone,
abandoned and forgotten.
Of our mortality -
and through it all,
she knows she has to
suffer through the silence.
Be strong, not waver.
She has to pick up the pieces after all.
But who is there to pick those pieces
when she is the one needing to be put back
together again?

It all seems so close, everything within her grasp. But she can’t help but stop to wonder: is this the life she wants?

Is she happy, for all the sacrifices she has made, to get to the here and now? She thinks she loves this place, but is this all there is? Is this now going to be her life, the place she works and play, live and die?

What is love, she doesn’t know. And she probably will never get to know. So how can she know that this life she leads is one she loves? This place she’s at, is one she loves? The one she wants?

Years later, she did something she never thought she’d be able to do again. She sat down in front of the computer, open up the folder where all her unifinished stories sit; collecting dust, never to see the light of day. She took a deep breath, and cliked on one. The first one that appeared on top of the list.

One that she’d worked out the plot for when it came to her in a dream. A nightmarish world – a world devoid of hope, but also about finding that hope again. With a deep breath, she thinks maybe….

Maybe she can write again; pick up the pen metaphorically.