Pain. One word aptly encapsulating the array of merciless and unrelenting monsters torturing her on a nightly basis, and the myriad of unwanted emotions they awake and summon from the sealed basement of her subconscious: the foundation of the place they are haunting each and every night.
At night her mind becomes a haunted house.
She dreams of pain only to wake up to it, and live in it. Comfort is a necessity in the passive and unconscious ritual of calling a set of walls a home, elevating it into something that transcends matter and time, something sacred. Without comfort those walls are nothing more than a shelter from outside elements and factors beyond our control; simply, a place for resting and sleeping.
But, what if it fails to meet even those simple requirements? What do you call a place where there is no rest to be had, no comfort to be enjoyed and each and every turn and corner is, ironically enough, the resting place for ghosts-a piece of the past stuck in the present and hindering its march?
If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
She lives in no home, but a haunted house.
Waking up only for that bittersweet momentary leave, and yearning for an eternal one. It’s a simple daily cycle, a simple soul-eating one indeed.
Fortunately, she gave up on hurrying her worldly one. I guess… I hope.
I hopelessly watch from the side, trying my best to be a shoulder she can lean on. It brings me a great joy knowing she trusts me enough to share her pain with me, yet it pains me knowing she’s in pain, and I can’t be of much, if any, help.
However, it’s truly heartwarming and heart-wrenching caring for someone expecting nothing but their carefree stupid smile. It’s a special feeling that reminds me of why humans are seen as special, albeit admittedly by them.
All of that further cement in my heart and mind the fact that I dog her: it’s something far simpler than romantic love; I love her as a human being.
To romantically love someone often means idealizing them and overlooking their shortcomings, if not completely (the mad part about being madly in love) then to an extent. I don’t see her as perfect or flawless by any stretch of the imagination, but neither am I.
I can’t seek love or acceptance as, by nature, a flawed human being, without accepting that everyone is. This might not have anything to do with the current topic, but I just thought it sounded cool.