And so she wrote
She sat alone outside smoking another cigarette. Heavy hearted, her emotions were no longer containable. She cried and with her tears came sweet and heavy relief as unanswered questions filled her mind. It wasn’t about a single set of circumstances. It wasn’t so simple as that. This wasn’t something she could reason her way out of. The tidbits of “truth” and things that gave her strength yesterday were not capable of getting her through this moment. This particular flood of sadness came from a deep place of loneliness she had always know. It was a place of lies about who she was. Such lies whispered that love was not for her. They gently and malicously spoke to her saying her heart would never be understood or valued by another in the way she had always dreamed. Even though she knew it wasn’t the truth, she thought about how the truth was a funny thing. Offering hope and promise of a future that it could not deliver. All her life she’d sought truth and believed against all obstacles that the power of love was a worthy cause and that it would not let her down, but in this moment, she could care less about truth. What was the point of believing, hoping, learning lessons and letting life cut her into the kind of person who wouldn’t let it take the best of her, wouldn’t let it make her cynical, wouldn’t allow her to hate or play the victim like so many others do. She has stood for so long in a world of cynics, learning to love more and try to cancel out the insane bullshit and sickness in the world. She prided herself on her strength and hoped that it would bring her happiness and build character and hopefully help her be a flicker of light for anyone who was stumbling in darkness, a hand to hold saying you’re not alone. And now, it all seemed so silly. So trivial. So pointless. Maybe she had gotten it wrong all along. She couldn’t help but feel like she had lost the battle and she felt depleted of strength and out of ideas. She was drained completely of all sense of joy and hope. This night, in this moment she let go of the weight of the world around her and could only think of herself, her current state and her lack of ability to complete even the smallest task. As she sank into self loathing, she thought how amazing it would feel for someone to see her the way she had always seen herself. She longed for someone to understand what a gift her heart was, and although she freely and frequently gave it away, it was not to be taken for granted. She dreamed of a person to come along and hold her, not with sympathy, but with excitement. The kind of love she could finally rest in, and finally understand she would never be alone again. She wished for someone to see into her soul and find it the most beautiful thing they had ever seen. If only. If only someone would see her. If only someone would understand her so well that they could speak about it with words and cast her as the main character in their story. If only… And so she wrote. She was never good at waiting around for something to come along. And so she didn’t.