nothing else but my heart's desire [COLLECTION] | FINISHED

Doors and Windows - ORIGINAL PROSE

Another road, I could've turned towards and taken, as I reminisce upon all the other versions of myself which could've been. I lie here and dream, I dream of their happiness, their hopes, their moments of despair, but most of all I dream of the love they would've shared, the big events which would've shaped their lives, from the moment which the path before me began to split into two, diverting from my usual routine, as choices big and small lie before me, all with such heavy weight upon my soul, as I bid goodbye to those I thought I'd never be without, and greet those I never would've met otherwise, who I now, with such stunning clarity, would never wish to leave behind, until the day comes where I must choose, once again, to cling to love or greet loss as the old friend it has become. It is a friend, my only true companion, as it, the faceless spirit of loneliness and a calm, eerie compassion for the sadness which I have carried with me for so long, it floats towards me and, for some reason not entirely known to anyone, much less myself, I feel no fear, I feel nothing but familiar sorrow and a quiet acceptance of all which shall pass, which has already come to pass, which has always been; it embraces me, envelopes me in its cold, delicate arms, as I worry the embodiment of all my heart shall fall apart under even the smallest piece of pressure. And then, as I find myself falling, curling up further into myself, as a part of me begs for all windows and doors to be shut and barred for all time, as I find myself wishing to linger in this space neither past nor future, perpetually frozen in a single, inconsequential minute, I am pushed further ahead, as I look back, over and over again, wishing for a return to simpler times. But that door remains closed, though the spirit lingers still, for its faceless features, so void of expression and emotion, convey a deep sense of regret, as it feels such longing in all manners as I do, for it is me and I am it.

Doors and windows to a future long since lost, abandoned, never to return once more, remain locked to she who longs to explore, who feels the weight of stagnation like sweat, stale, cold, unforgiving, uncomfortable, against her skin. Sounds are too loud, smells too potent, sights too bright, and all I wish to do is sleep and dream of all the things I cannot think about, nor voice aloud in my waking hours. I search for meaning in the mundane, as I distract my mind from the abstract, but I cannot pull my thoughts away from the doors and windows bolted shut, to my future (and past) which never leave me be.