I writhe in pain, but inwardly. The day is so beautiful, so wistful. The blue sky is speckled by white clouds. Peppered by invisible stars and the faraway moon. It illuminates the other world.
The other side of the world.
Faraway lands, states, countries. They endure the chilled night, or warm embrace of the darkness that signals the time to rest, and to sleep. The time to hold still, and quiet.
Simple moments of silence. Gold that shimmers in moonlight, wedding bands and lockets that are worn near indefinite. Reminders of beloved and betrothed. It's the opposite of my inside abode. Where my stomach turns and somersaults. Each stand and bend is marked by a sharp edge of pain. It feels as though I could faint.
Its times as these that night is welcomed. Welcomed by those plagued by senseless war. Or suffering from ills and medicine that promises to help, but it only lengthens the journey to the inevitable.
Here in the still of the morning. All that is heard is the tick of a clock. Time that flees; every second. Every minute. Every hour. Every day. Every month. Even the year. Midway through summer of post-pandemic.
Should I not be delighted? The worst is over. Or is it left to come?
Only one person could answer such a thing.
YOU ARE READING
Party in My Head
PoetryA story about Nic Natricia Webber (some parts based on my personal experience with Bipolar disorder) who suffers with Bipolar disorder and her adoring husband of 3 years as they traverse the terrain together
