The wounded self

The night is long, punctuated by nightmare dreams, the noises in my head imagined loud and frightening.

I open the blind and look out into the night, that isn't night but isn't daylight either. A pale yellow haze illuminates the street, the deserted avenue of houses in front of me. There are no people, silence engulfs the greyness. I am struck by a strong but somehow pleasant sadness.  All my anxiety leaves me as I look outside. The memory carries a melancholy that is linked to sleepiness. I remember the snow falling, the sun setting, as the flakes dance across the orange globe.

The lessons of brutal shifts of fortune run deep; every word I speak is followed by a merciless feeling of guilt and remorse. Yet I am neither cruel nor murderous in my existence.

Life I feel has dealt me an excruciating blow; my life has it happiness in parts often clustered waiting for the axe to fall.

Alone-this night I cry in a room filled with emptiness and tears.

Cold is the floor on which they fall and the silence that loneliness brings

only a suffering heart to share . The light that once shined so brightly through my windows were the stars only tonight, there are no stars.

Tonight, the winds blow through the darkness. The breeze haunts my memories it’s strength devours my dreams in their weakness and life deminishes like the candle flame.

The moment has come to forget the evil times, time to concentrate on the fresh future.