I sit in a quiet room, a bedside lamp and an aching memory. The depths of me are clawing at the surface of my mind, my fingertips pulsing with fervor. All I want is to grasp what is hanging in the distance. Put a name to the feelings that stir in the silent parts just beneath the depth. Struggling towards a dream.
It’s now, in the quiet of the night that everything pours over. That the walls close in, that the need to breath, to move, to feel, overwhelms me. There’s an image, faint and pure, waiting for me in the valley. Clearing as I calm my mind and my heart. It’s you, the haunted memory of you. The marking on my wrist taunts me, as I try to forget and ache to remember. Live it says. And I struggle towards that dream.
My mind pulls me back there often, back to place it all started to fall apart. Back to place that holds my fears. In the moments of silence, when my heart is uneasy and my mind is weary, that I’m drawn back to the place where my emotions held all the power. Where the purest form of faith and trust I ever had was broken and stripped away. It’s on nights like this, when my fingers refuse to stop moving, when my heart finds it impossible to slow down, that I see how very real that mark should be. Live it says. And every day is filled with the struggle towards that dream.
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