Tell your story…

The fourteen inch screen blink brightly, staring back at her unmoving figure while the world around her moves — perhaps too fast for her liking. She eyes the mostly white interface of an online writing website in front of her impassively. Somehow she has a very strong feeling that it is mocking her, laughing its imaginary ass off in front of her blank face. Words are swirling and jumbling inside her head. She could feel them moving around, elbowing each other. Quite comical, immoderately humiliating. It used to be easy, writing. It used to be as easy as the act of breathing for her. Ideas, words, emotions, memories, anything — they used to be her strong suit, her other half, her way of defining herself.

“But no one can have something that good forever,” She chuckles. Her inner-voice sounding so dry, like it has been scorched by eternal fire from the deepest pit of Tartarus.

She was too young. Her soul — whichever part of her that was alive, burning, and bleeding — was too gentle. And, to quote young Katniss Everdeen, “she couldn’t save her.”

“I’m sorry.” She said at last. This time with a slight wetness in her voice, as though what was left from her soul is crying.

The blankness in her expression fades, her eyes moist with unshed tears. It shouldn’t be this sad. Mourning for what used to be the core of your presence shouldn’t be this sad.

But it is. And the grieving continue.