Arcadia

3

Messages whispered into the air always go to waste. No one hears the screams stifled on the pillow case, no one sees the tears that dry on there. The pain that burns everything inside of you, the love that keeps you awake at night. And you sit and think of all the mistakes you've made, all that could have been yours. Gods don't exist, it's us who make Gods out of people, and mountains, and suns, and Plutos. We build that pedestal to worship them on. And suddenly, you realize that all of it is just to fill a hole, and it almost makes me laugh. The harshest of truths are often the most comforting. But you long to hold that hand that you'd long let go of, but it's too far away, and it's not even reaching out. Maybe I made a mistake. In the midst of thunder and rain, I look for a shelter to take refuge in for a while, one that looks like the home I left behind. But the storm-clouds move away, taking with it all the promises of things that could have been, and suddenly the emptiness is too much to take.