[writing] Coming Storm

Alone; always alone, I sit in my room, and stare at a wall.
An empty wall I was to fill with memories of a time now discarded, a metaphor for potential wasted and lost all throughout my life.
And as I reflect, time itself feels different
While the past tries to flee my presence as if I’m a plague victim, the future comes barrelling into the present like a train that doesn’t notice someone crossing its tracks.
What happened a week ago feels like a forgotten myth, while the whole of tomorrow is but five minutes away. I can barely remember what was, and I don’t know -don’t want to know- what will be. All there is that counts is the now, and I retreat inwards.

I soar on the burning wings of an angel through the mighty glass dome of my mind, filled with nothing but the cracks where it once shattered and was repaired. In the centre of the nothing, on a shrinking island of hope is a little girl, clutching at the knees she buried her face into. Hiding from the coming storm.
And as hope fades, and calm ebbs away, I see the cracks becoming wider. The cracks in the dome that keeps out the storm. But through the cracks now slips doubt, the first and most insidious of storm’s vanguards. It seeks its familiar place in the back of my mind to nestle. And fester.
Others will come. Rage. Frustration. Anguish. Soon the dome will shatter once more, and all will clash and the storm will begin anew.

The girl knows as I know, and begins sobbing. I reach out, want to hold her, comfort her, and am in my room, arms clasped around my shoulders, staring at an empty wall, filled with promises.
I sigh, dreading the coming storm that will engulf an innocent little girl in misery once more, as a single tear rolls down my cheek. Longing for a yesterday that I can scarcely remember, and fearing a tomorrow that will crush me. Alone. Always fearing tomorrow.

Always alone.

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