![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Sometimes she writes because she feels empty. There's a hole in her heart, a gaping chasm, and her pen flies across the paper because she knows that if she writes enough, the words will fill her up and she can be happy at last.
Sometimes she writes because the world is bubbling around beneath her skin and she has to get it out, has to show everyone what she's feeling or else she'll explode. There's too much emotion for her slender frame to hold, so she siphons it off into the blank pages until she feels small and light again.
Sometimes she lies awake at night, staring up at the ceiling and imagining that she's incomplete. That the hole in her heart will never be filled, that the things she sees will never be real. She feels hollow, disconnected. She smiles, simply because it is the least sensible thing she can do. Then she wonders whether it might just be the most sensible thing she's done in her life.
As the cold robs her of her digits (for if she can't feel them, they're not there), she laughs grimly inside herself as she realises how hopelessly melodramatic she is. The sound reverberates in her chest, setting her teeth on edge. She doesn't like to think rationally. She believes that by wallowing in her emptiness, she can make herself feel real again.
With her head in the clouds and her cold limbs wrapped in feather blankets, she falls asleep and dreams of strange, dark worlds where nameless shadows chase her ever closer to the border of her sanity. When she wakes up, she chuckles and calls herself a fool, and goes out and lives until the next spell takes her.
Sometimes she writes because the world is bubbling around beneath her skin and she has to get it out, has to show everyone what she's feeling or else she'll explode. There's too much emotion for her slender frame to hold, so she siphons it off into the blank pages until she feels small and light again.
Sometimes she lies awake at night, staring up at the ceiling and imagining that she's incomplete. That the hole in her heart will never be filled, that the things she sees will never be real. She feels hollow, disconnected. She smiles, simply because it is the least sensible thing she can do. Then she wonders whether it might just be the most sensible thing she's done in her life.
As the cold robs her of her digits (for if she can't feel them, they're not there), she laughs grimly inside herself as she realises how hopelessly melodramatic she is. The sound reverberates in her chest, setting her teeth on edge. She doesn't like to think rationally. She believes that by wallowing in her emptiness, she can make herself feel real again.
With her head in the clouds and her cold limbs wrapped in feather blankets, she falls asleep and dreams of strange, dark worlds where nameless shadows chase her ever closer to the border of her sanity. When she wakes up, she chuckles and calls herself a fool, and goes out and lives until the next spell takes her.
