Dreaming of shadows and songs and burning trees
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Sometimes she surrenders to the darkness, lets it surround her and rest heavy on her shoulders. She is blind, but the dark of the night tells her that it’s ok. It tells her that the dark was never meant for seeing.
She is scared, but the dark of emptiness tells her it’s OK. It tells her that fear is natural. She imagines frightful scenes that won’t ever exist, but the dark of the shadows tells her it’s OK. It tells her that she will be ok, and that she is safe.
That’s why she draws the curtains on nights that are too bright; why she turns off the lights on the days she hates most. It’s why she pretends that the light through the cracks in the curtains isn’t there on the mornings she wants to forget.
They speak to her, voices by her side, in hushed tones. They don’t tell her that it’s ok, because it isn’t. They just speak. They tell of the shadows cast by a sun that is only a sliver against the horizon. They sing tunes in tongues long forgotten. They murmur quiet stories of trees that burn loud and bright. But they do not speak of her day. They do not speak of the tears that fell in their domain. They do not speak of nights she spends with her mouth open, screaming and screaming without a sound coming out.
When the morn returns, she is asleep, dreaming of shadows and songs and burning trees. And then, she can pretend that the day before never happened, and smile again.
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