She writes poetry when she can’t sleep. Hell, she writes poetry when she can’t think, when she can’t breathe, when her whole world is flooded with those damn thoughts that she can never run far enough away from.
Her fingers fly, on the keyboard, on the Notes App on her phone, with a pencil or pen, words fly effortlessly – recorded memories and moments and emotions. There’s nothing quite like being able to explain how you feel by using a color, or a place, or a temperature. But with words, analogies, metaphors: Anything is possible.
And language was her secret weapon.
But right now, right at this very moment she feels absolutely powerless. No amount of words, syllables, or letters would be able to help her gain control over this thing that haunts her. She couldn’t even tell you what that thing was. It’s just there, always there – sometimes hidden in the depths of her mind, but effortlessly and irrevocably present.
She thought, for a moment, that she had escaped it. That she had hidden from it, as if you could actually hide from something that resides within you. And she thinks that’s what worries her most. That it is within her, that she’ll never rid herself from this misery. She thinks maybe death is the only resource. It may not “solve” her problems, but it would end them. Eternally. Things wouldn’t get better, but in turn they could never possibly get worse.
God, this fear is just unnerving, unending, undying. She fears if she doesn’t escape it soon, it’ll eat her whole – if it hasn’t already.