Unfeeling

Dearest gentle reader,

As the sun ascends its golden throne this noon, this author finds herself most inclined to pose a rather delicate question. Fear not-for it is neither salacious nor scandalous, merely a curiosity of the mind.

A lingering thought if you may, so please humor thy weary mind.

Among the vast tapestry of emotions woven into the human soul, which, pray tell, reigns supreme?

Permit this writer a bold presumption, should she be forgiven for such impertinence: dread.

Cousin to despair, companion to sleepless nights, and ever the maestro of trembling hands and quickened breath.

Have we not all- felt its chilling caress?

The kind of fear that creeps, silent and serpentine, through the cracks of our composure... that drapes itself over one's shoulders like a lover most unwanted, feeding steadily upon one's resolve until all that remains is a fragile shell, echoing with uncertainty.

No?

Ah, then you are most fortunate. For there exists a certain soul, intimately known to this author, who is-how shall one say it?-thoroughly acquainted with this most ruthless of emotions.

And so, as the children might chant before embarking on tales of folly: do take your seat, sip the scandalously overpriced beverage you seem to adore, and steel yourself, dear reader.

For you are about to step across the threshold into a shadowed waltz of broken hearts, unbearable longing, and truths too sharp to swallow.

This is not merely a story.

This... is home.

- Yours in ink and agony,
This Author