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She's so tired and she tries her best not to say anything.
Everyday, she gets up and faces another morning. Before, she treated every sunrise like an adventure--one filled with surprises and stories worth sharing. They held countless promises and she looked forward to all of them. The following hours had so much in store for her; it would be a sin to miss even one.
Tomorrow was another day and she couldn't wait for it to come. Once she closed her eyes, she dreamt of what it would bring. What will she write about? Which way will life lead her again? Should she get lost to experience cheap thrills?
She placed her faith in the Morning. Now, she isn't so sure anymore.
As the months progress, she found herself losing the joy she once held. Her pen, the source of her talent and delight, slowly began to fail her. Strings of words came as usual, but they did not deliver the results she hoped. Eventually, she found out that they never did.
Sure, the new months came with surprises. Her honesty would reveal that she has never been happier and sometimes, she wished the sun never set. But if she would re-evaluate, the blunt truth is pretty obvious: she's stuck.
Most days, she wishes that there was more to life than this. The uncertainty of all things scares the daylights out of her: will I forever stay like this? What's next for us? Will it end sooner than I think? Will my words always be supressed by the need to survive? The questions are endless and sometimes, she hopes they stop. But they don't.
He tells her to keep her chin up. You're better than you think, he says, Give it some time. He goes on about why she should stay, how she can stay. Over cups of home delights, he persuades her to think it over, but he knows he'll never win. Because he knew that she knew she was fed up with it.
She considers his words carefully. He wasn't the only one with sound advice--others too. Their tunes varied but she sensed one line: give it some time.
How long should she wait before she reconnects with her passion? Her pen has been her best friend but the recent circumstances are ruining the beautiful love affair. She feels lost, controlled. She is nothing but a robot--more mechanic, less passion. It's sad because she wasn't like this before.
Now, she is.
A perpetually happy person does not write about depressing sentiments. But here she is, scribbling down her frustrations. The year is coming to an end; she couldn't be happier. It was amazing and she couldn't ask for more but the sad goodbye between her and the passion she held close struck her hard. It bid adieu while she was still in love--now, she finds herself wanting it back.
Unfortunately, searching for it meant leaving. And if she were completely honest, she knows she couldn't. Not today, not tomorrow--not in the soonest, at least.
So, she remains in a struggle or a dirty haze of what-ifs? and just do its'. As she gazes at the flashing lights of the holidays, she can only hope. The Good Lord bestowed upon every human being that simple gift: hope. She clings tightly to it.
She's so tired. Weary and unhappy. But she knows she'll be all right.
We will be.
