The sky reflects every aspect of if my face, damp and cold with the raindrops metaphysically changing their structures into the salt water I can faintly taste on my lips.
"Why am I so sad all the time?" I ask myself, still staring at the clouds outside of my window.
"Where did the forest fire behind my eyes fizzle out to?"
You've lost control....
I sit up a little more vigilant, questioning where that voice came from. It's a familiar one.
"No. I am always in control," I whisper, challenging the voice, "I have to be. Otherwise, my time here will end."
You're not wrong. Maybe it is more of the matter that you're giving up.
"You're my mind." I whimper, realizing that destructive tone I've grown accustomed to in my 25 years of living.
You want to sleep. I know you do.
"No," I counter, "I can't."
Come on Emily. Everything feels heavy doesn't it? You're tired...
"No."
Just let it all go. Sleep. Don't wake up. Just rest.
"What if I die?"
Now wouldn't that be peaceful?
"It would. But not now"
Now is the perfect time.
"I made a promise."
She is dead. The promise is void.
Fighting the tears, I sit up farther, "She is alive in me still. It is not my time."
Fine. Maybe some other time.
I nod my head, tears that I fought finally escaping, "Yes, maybe some other time."
And the cycle repeats.
YOU ARE READING
Something I Call: My Lore
Historia CortaHello All, My name is Emily, and I live with bipolar II disorder. I have wanted to get back into writing, but I never finish everything. So this is something I would like to call an ongoing project...maybe. I want to show you all how the mind of one...
