talked to a woman who said the heaviness came back today, the pain in her guts, the ache in her chest, the explosions in her mind. all too well she knows the reverberation, the tempo, the rhythm of the angst. she coddles it, welcomes it and lets it take her completely down. but she weeps for the emptiness, the sound of silence and for the times she should have known better. she contemplates the end of it all, and the beginning, and where it started, because. she delivers the punches, but emptiness delivers the blows. it’s a dance of ruin, a tango a last waltz, and it’s the degeneration of her being here that makes it seem like it never happened at all.
she is destined for greatness, she says, a dream never known, but she keeps searching for that something to make it all worth while and okay. she is consistently inconsistent and known for it well. the flaw that will make her famous and bring the lights, misguided by a desire to belong somewhere only to find she is still standing alone behind the brick wall.
devastated, she weeps. and i know not what to say to comfort her, bring her back alive. she is broken in parts, strong in others, the cracks revealing her leaking soul. on the floor, there it is, trampled by time and circumstance and depleted in all things that are good. she is starting again however, bringing anew. and she is ready to take on the world she says, now that she knows where to go.
she was once here. remember me, she says, and i do, will forever, knowing that she is somewhere better than here. she is a star now, one that flies, and there isn’t anyone that can have her while she’s up there now, touching the sun. so i’ll wait here and tell her story, word for word, breath for breath and wonder: where is she? is she happier? free? repaired? i might see her flying some day and let her be. a distant memory of sadness and melancholy and the most perfect version of anything that ever was.
-sandy.
She Works Alone. 