So I wake each morning, wishing it were the next, wishing of days to come, to carry me with its enormous radiant wings. Tomorrow's day will never come, and I know this.. Yet still this feeling remains. Senseless helplessness rides each morning's ray that shines through this dirtied window, reflected by the dew on the blood red flowers, peering out the familiar balcony. The breeze pushes its way through the cracks in the shudders, and suddenly, I feel as I felt the day before, yes, it is tomorrow... Yet still this feeling remains. Tonight I shall feast with family, closeness felt never before, closeness that alone, continues past my mind, my breath... until tomorrow. Every night, I imagined what tomorrow would bring, and every night I contemplated occurrences further than my reach, farther than my shout, farther away from me than death itself. For today, yesterday, I cannot die. The days pass swifter today, for I have found a voice to listen to, an ear to hear me, and a heart to care. In family, in the last place I would have looked. My thoughts spilled uot as water from a bottle, gurgling and rhythmically noisemaking as I hold a waiting glass below... the water crashing and being held, as it trembles and weeps in my father's arms. The days went faster since then, but slow they remained, as a snail may race another, and the faster of the two receive the first morsel from a waiting leaf. Words still kept me company, but the familiar, warm voice of my bringer kept me within sanity's boundaries. At night, I rained. When the sun rose, tomorrow's wish became.
One day in selfish wishfulness did time pass as it once had... A sympathetic soul to share my burdens... my wishes. In what she wished, I advised, and in what I wished, she cried. Hours solely, toothpicks arranged into artwork: a flower with two leaves, wooden as the pike of which it was made... A grassy ground, the sun, and its rays, shining down upon its creation. This time, with no dew to reflect upon. And all wood, all creamy, light hearted brown. All dead... But it is a flower, the sun, and the grassy field upon which my life was made... Fill me again with battles and sun drenched fields such as these, I asked her... And for the few hours in which we sat and talked, she did. Three nights followed when I slept. Awoke with myself in my gaze. The dew that pushed sunlight into my darkened room became my glistening eye that sparkled for just a few. Horrid visions ceased to be, as my weary imagination slept. Words for these few days were still my friend, but of a less bleeding mouth. My paper pleaded words and my mouth, answers. Staring at a wall, thinking of nothing, brows frowned, wrinkles on my forehead, in my brain, on my mind, I wait.