I can feel the change inside of me.
Something that used to be there – is missing.
Well, maybe not missing… I think it might be dead.
And all I feel now, inside my soul…is ashes.
Where the flame used to burn brightly, fueling a zeal and passion for things – there is no light. No fire. Not even a spark.
Rejection at every turn will do that.
Something is broken, and, as I sit here among the scattered pieces, I’m not even sure I have the manual on how to fit them back together again.
My fingers lie numb at the ends of my hands, fumbling as I type… (Thank goddess for spell check and the “edit and view” feature before a posting)
I stare at the walls when I don’t have some mindless busywork to do, trying to remember what I used to fill my time with, and it all seems meaningless.
My Kindle keeps me from watching the real world pass me by…books my only true escape.
Working in my kitchen, readying to paint it, keeps me from screaming into my pillows, or crying into endless tissues. It’s pointless, anyway. No one hears.
I try to force myself outside my own comfort zone, even going so far as to volunteer for something through work this weekend, just to get out of the house…but in truth, I’m gritting my teeth and dreading it.
I hate doing the “small talk social gathering” crap, anymore.
If I could just have one, real thing… Something here, that would make the days even worth it…
I know, I know…psychiatry says that happiness is supposed to come from within, you can’t hang your happiness on outside sources.
But, when there’s only ashes in your soul…
You have to gather the firewood from somewhere.
You have to borrow the spark from another flame, to relight your own.
Walking through the ashes alone makes me weary.
And yet, I cannot sleep.
The cycle never seems to end.
I need lightning.