A/N: See, this is what I do. I get in front of a keyboard, and suddenly my fingers start typing things that I didn't even know were in my head. Crazy, right? Um, I'm not even sure if you could call this fanfiction, considering I'm not quite sure what it's about. I was actually sort of sleeping while I wrote it. Hey, who here has seen Heroes? You know who Isaac can paint the future? What I do is kinda similar—I mean, I'm not high or anything—even though it seems like it—but how his eyeballs kinda roll back into his head and he's in a trance? That's what I'm like when I'm writing without a purpose. Only without the weird eyeball thing. Okay, I'm gonna shut up now.
Disclaimer: Even though I don't need one.
She sighed as a voice inside her head told her things. Things she didn't want to hear. It wasn't fair for her to have to let go, when she didn't want to. Let go. So many times she'd read the words; in books, romance novels, classics, heard it in movies and songs but it never held much meaning.
Maybe such simple things weren't meant to mean that much, but they did. Because letting go wasn't just the act, you know, to stop holding on. Because even when your hand is limp at your side and your arm is far away, and even if you're halfway across the country, trying to drive away, trying to let go—you can't.
Your mind is stopped, a skipping record, repeating on one of those sappy love songs. And it's stuck in your head and you can't LET IT GO, as much as you try, you can't let it go. Let. It. Go. She wanted to so badly, but part of her, maybe, part of her didn't.
When she let go, she might find something else, but it wouldn't be the same. Everyone moves on. Eventually. Everything ends. Eventually. But when you find that you don't want it to, and your heart is racing and your mind is reeling and your toes are curling and your fists are clenching—what happens? Can you learn to let go? Is it RIGHT to let go? Or do you grasp, reach, HOLD ON tighter and harder than before, simply because you know you have to. Even if it doesn't make sense. Because it's part of you. That holding on.
And you can deal—you can survive without it, but then you wouldn't be full. The lines wouldn't be colored. It would be Dorothy's world in black and white. And even though the only color is in a dream, sometimes a dream is more real than what you assume is reality, because what you could've had is harder to let go of then what you really did.
So you keep holding on, not in body, but in mind, as tight as you can, until your knuckles turn white and all speech is gone, and you no longer smile or frown because you don't have the energy to, and expressions don't matter because there's only one you've got. Commitment.
And people say you're crazy to hold on to something that, after all, you let go of long ago, and you believe them. You ARE crazy. You're fucking insane. But you have to be on such a level of insanity because when you're living in a dream, nothing's real. Except for the feeling that you're holding on, and insanely, on some level of higher proportions, everything clicks. Everything comes into place. All you have to do is hold on.
So she did.