On a lonely Saturday night she sat at home, turning textbook pages. She was supposed to be reading but the words blurred before her.
Like any other night she was at home, no place to go when you have limited energy. No place to go when your friends are coupled up.
The night outside was peaceful, and it was warm for November. When the darkness rolled in, it was fast a midnight sky.
And the stars twinkled down on her, she hadn’t seen them glimmer in ages; she felt as if they knew her secrets, that she longed to be strong again.
But the stars had heard billions of pleas for change and prayer to prevent suffering. They reigned down supreme as many begged to Him ‘on high’ for relief.
The snow lit the ground so it was slightly easier to see. When you drove home it shone, a white neon sign that was to remain until April.
And the houses with their lights off were slightly alarming. The world was out celebrating that the holidays were here. But some people were just stuck, marinating in their chairs.
But not everyone could party on warm nights. Some such as her, had things to do and places to be tomorrow.
But what she wouldn’t trade to be as most everyone, to not have to worry when the clock struck midnight. Not to have to feel a sickening in her stomach.
To not feel a terrible exhaustion hit her and feel herself fading away while the people around her move like puppets, never knowing that for her something isn’t right
The sound becomes to much, her ears are hurting. There are too many people here now. And she runs for the door only to be stopped by a woman she knows little, slurring her words on Bourbon.
Yes, better to stay at home and have a glass of wine. Better to stay at home and ace the exam on Tuesday. Better to be well for tomorrow and do some Christmas browsing. Better to be well.
But she can’t stop from wanting what she knows she can’t have. She prays every night but He ‘on high’ keeps whispering for her to go on, how she is. She’ll be fine.
And for her, that’s not an option. That’s not a choice. That is a sentence given and she lacks the power to change her direction.
Flipping pages is alright some of the time. But some nights are for party dresses, and high heels. Some nights are for music and a fantastic meal.
Some nights are for friends and staying up until dawn. Some nights are for memories that keep carrying you on.
But some nights are for typing and writing a poem. Writing on the screen what she is thinking and wondering if anything will change.
Or if the world will keep on spinning endlessly, ignoring her prayers. But she keeps on writing because it’s an escape from her mind.
Where the wheels are turning and the clock won’t go round, wondering when she can again begin; to begin anew, does that take until New Years?
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