Funny, how things work. 

I have much to say, And if I had the time, putting pen to paper, I'd let the ink from my worn pen tell all that I cannot adequately profess using the spoken word.

And yet, as I type all these and watch the words bleed into my computer screen, I find myself unexpectedly at a loss for words. 

I have so much to say, to tell, to unload, and yet I seem to have the worst case of writer's block. 

Not that I am much of a writer anyway.

It's been a while since I last wrote.

Dawn to dusk, dusk till dawn, and it has been, what, close to a year already?

 Life as I know it has changed dramatically. Confusion abound, life-changing decisions, profound decisions. A tale of dreams lived, and dreams set free. A cupboard full of regrets, and then some. And a chest-full of hopes, somewhere half-hidden from sight, waiting for the right key to reveal its treasures. A twinge of regret, but within it a grain of exhilaration. 

Perhaps this is life. 

Perhaps I shall finally comprehend it in its enormity, depth and beauty before long. 

Am I any closer to seeing it as it is? I think not.

Not when I still have much growing up to do, more things to see, more of me to be. 

One day soon, perhaps.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Doesn't it seem like such a lonely word? 

and surrender to your darkest dreams

Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before

In the dark, it is easy to pretend

Only then -

Deep breaths.

In, out, in out.

It is fine, she tries to convince herself.

But it isn't. It really isn't.

In and out. In and out.

It becomes a mantra she repeats; over and over again as she is denied the clarity that she needs so much.

In and out.

The world spins on its axis. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. A year is really three hundred and sixty five and one quarter days long.

She tries to hold onto these facts; things that are immovable and as clear as day and night; black and white.

Her eyes fill with hot tears, and one slips, leaving tracks all the way to her chin before they begin the uncertain fall downwards, even as her racing heartbeat echoes in her ears.

It all comes down to this, breathing.

But even that does not help her regain lost composure.

Inhale, exhale.

Her hands tremble as she buries her face in them, as if ashamed to face the world.

And now her world is this, entirely consisting of shallow breathing that permeates the thick cloud of gloom and silence that lingers like an aura of dark energy, its sound resonating in her head like raindrops on a windowpane.

In, out. In out. In and out. Out and in.

And still she breathes.