A seclusion in the void, my heart's final recoil. Pure emotion eluding the flame that supposedly consumes it and the void is no longer a void. My heart's rest lost in loneliness – not sadness. A heart that gropes for a ledge to hang on to, only to find them cracked and ready to fall. A heart that searches for seclusion and company among ghosts and invisible men. A heart that cries without tears nor sound. A heart that's dying but deemed to be alive and well. The lost and confused heart that is me.
Already my walls are failing, my defenses crushed leaving only the foundations…memories of what they were. Useless against the onslaught. Time may well be against me as I find none to rebuild it. My enemies but fictitious fiends; none to be seen at the torn down walls, yet real enough to leave behind wounds and scars at their continuous slaughter. Laughter echoes through them, resounding in thought; assured of victory. Yet most do not know of this occurrence. Blind of the desolation they cause. No hate, no satisfaction, just…life pulling their strings.
At times I wish the wounds they cause are seen and touched. A slow death in heart and mind is more torturous than that of the body. Reservoirs begging release but held back and contained near breaking point. No one notices, no one pays it any mind. I remain silent. One too many chances have been given out and I cannot take it any longer. The pain of other hearts contained in my stronghold, shutting and locking them with my own retreat. Their own strongholds already hold too much without knowing that mine has been holding to its limits for the longest time. Expansion is not an option for there is no space left within the void. It is consumed, and within it, pure emotion that threatens to tear apart the soul and mind. The heart continues to die.
The letter falls from the writer's hand. Tears threatening to overwhelm. Writing in riddles meant that understanding it would not be easy. No one would know if it were real or just a lyric prose. No one would know what it was intended for and she wanted to keep it that way. Keeping all those tears at bay was difficult but manageable. 'Crying is for the weak.' The thought that repeated itself countless of times in that stubborn mind. The writer can never admit denial. Not even the denials occurring in that confused mind.
'No one can understand that deep inside this armor, the warrior is but a child.' Slowly, heavy lidded eyes dropped and peaceful sleep came. 'One friend…just one real…'