Internal Arguements

Tell me a story, a fable, a lie. Tell me all the things I thought I wanted to hear. There's nothing that feels so real anymore, the illusion is gone, shattered beyond recognition. Anger, pain and hurt are now my only companions. They lure me closer towards the edge, reason shrinking into the distance. Boundaries broken, but between what I am unsure. Nothing remains, all is lost.

Is this the truth?

Even of this I am unsure, I doubt my very self and who I used to be. Who is this person who has my face? I see them in the mirror, moving as I move but there is no comfort in the face I see.

Ladies and gentlemen we are experiencing turbulence. Normal service will soon resume. Hold onto your hats folks, it's going to be a bumpy one.

I want to scream but there is no sound. I want to run but cannot move. I am trapped here with my internal turmoil, half scared it will rend me in two. What an escape, to split the burden of my soul, to live with but half the anguish.

Fool. There is no comfort there, The only way is up. Forward motion, build momentum for the climb. Is that the slightest hint of clear air? Leave these feelings far behind. Create a brand new future but do not forget the past. Do not let it rule you but do not forget. Without the past, the sum of your whole would be incomplete. This all seems hard, too hard sometimes, but if you had not gone through all you have been through, had not fallen so many times, would you now be standing?

Would I be here?

Take comfort in the pain, the sign you are alive. The hard times seem too much, but you forget the good. Nothing lasts forever, save love, and only love. It is all that counts, the force above all else. Gravity could fail, the stars to fall and the earth to rise, yet have love in your heart and hope.
For all is love.

Sycamore Drive - Short story idea

It happened just as I was pulling left onto Sycamore Drive. It’s an odd junction; the planters between the two lanes make for very poor visibility. I probably could have been paying more attention myself so I don’t blame you. I don’t even know your name, and I never will now. Strange to think I will never know the name of the person who killed me. I say it’s strange, do many people know the names of their killer? All those boys who have laid down their lives for their country, their beliefs, they lived and died in anonymity. They don’t know who killed them, and we don’t know them. Oh we know of them, and we know of the things they have done but that’s all. All they are now is a row of blank crosses, a poppy in November and forgotten by most for the rest of year.
As I was saying, it happened as I was turning left onto Sycamore Drive. I remember light, blinding light, although it could have been the pain that was blinding, as short lived as it was. Then there was nothing. I tried to look down at my hands, my arms, and my body but there was nothing. There was no tunnel of light, no ascension to above, and no chorus of angels lamenting my demise. Just the vast expanse of nothing.

Such endless thoughts,
untied,
no purpose.

Why circle,
why prey,
feeding on my anxious mind.

What a world,
what a world;
where up is down,
and left is right.
Crooked odds,
and slender chances.

And once again;
to sleep,
to work,
to try,
to sleep.

Am I dreaming?

It’s time to come down,
But I don’t want to.

The world cannot compare.

Things were more vivid then,
Every detail more pronounced.

Words had meaning and,
The Silent,
A voice.

Take me back and show me,

The happy versions,

Of ourselves.