☽⇉𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝚆𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎.

It's 12 in the morning, yet I am still awake, working on my latest piece.
This seems to be a habit I cannot leave behind, for I fail to imagine how people
Can write beneath the daytime heat where everything seems bleak.
The sky is dark outside and the stars are bright, a little like the words on my black screen
My mind is at peace as my thoughts bleed onto the sheet of paper in front of me
Forming lines of words I would never dream of repeating.

I have always loved writing, watching the words take shape on a blank canvas
Like a sunrise sweeping over the early morning sky, so brief yet magical
It has always been the one thing I cling onto so desperately
For it is my quest- a word so small yet so extraordinarily full of hope. And
I can never live without it- for then I would cease to exist. Not without my stories, my treasure,
My light, so precious in a world so dark. Yet it's all I have.

There was a little girl who always adored writing, dreaming up tales with china rabbits,
And toy trains that take little soldiers around. She met a little rat
When she was seven, who showed her the world of writing and happiness
Well, she fell in love with the newfound dimension straight away-
Vowed to never leave with a huge smile and teary eyes- "I'll stay forever!" she said
And so she did, playing all day all night in a land of masquerade.

So there she would stay, trying to escape the dark reality looming ahead.
It hurt me to see her in tears whenever she came and visited- but it made me happier
To know that she always left with a smile. I don't want to know how difficult reality was
For her to stay for hours each time she visited- despite knowing that this place
Simply wasn't real. Yet she still visited regularly, too often for my comfort, because it ached
To know that this land of dreams was the only shelter she had.

I gave the girl a pair of wings- a pair of wings that took the shape of letters and words-
A pair of wings that took her to all the places her mind could dream of.
But the girl lost track of the years as her wings faded from misuse- the feathers completely
Torn and ruffled, dust weighing her down, preventing her from staying aloft.
Her mind plagued by hallucinations of success- ones she knew she could never accomplish.
She allowed herself to turn away from reality, indulging in the fantasy, and she gradually fell ill.

What would my younger self think of me when she sees me all broken?
The way her voice breaks when she chokes out the words 'What happened to me?"
How could I ever imagine facing her wide innocent eyes and her childlike smile?
Will I dare to see the black orbs fill with tears, her tiny frame trembling when she sees her lifeline
Slowly ebbing away? If she falls ill again- she might just disappear
And I don't think I will know what to do then.

But I have to know.
I have to know when the little girl is on the brink of death, teetering between the delicate balance
Between her return- or her disappearance from our shared world,
As I try desperately to bring her back, to invite her back with warm arms,
Even when the once-colourful world has faded into slabs of grey, I know she is still waiting
For us to rebuild the world again until it rises from the ashes of our broken hearts.