Thoughts of She

She wept.
She raged.

She stood numb, heart stopping its painful exertion for one short period of time, one blissful moment where perhaps something would change, something to ease the invisible but oh-so real burden. But this hope was in vain. Each dull thump was the same as the last, in the same way that all her minutes lumbered past in same monotony, each one plodding to the same rhythm, the same single note, as if it's the only thing her mind could hear.

She groaned.
She wailed.

She wondered, where was the bright future she had imagined before her? Where were the glories that she had dreamed? To where had her heart and fire fled? Had they sought a more suitable vessel, one deserving of the zest and desire that they could fuel? Could they be merely lurking, waiting for a time where circumstance and darkness would no longer shroud them? Did she dare hope? Dreams seemed useless, for now, but perhaps that hope was yet present, lingering back in the shadows.

She moaned.
She sobbed.

She was weak. She knew it. She gave to pressure, giving way to expected silence, quietly seething until she could stand no more and succumbed to her dullness, preferring it to smoldering bitterness. She let her mind wander; it was easier to not think on things, for there was enough pain she couldn’t banish. Her muscles lacked the strength. Was this all she was destined for? To play the ghost in the shadows, the unseen? Whose needs and wants were never first, whose hunger will be satisfied only when everyone else’s was? But that never happened, did it. People always wanted more, even when there's nothing left to give.

She screamed.
She shouted.

She questioned, who can understand the pain of being told that your misery isn't real, that it can be banished purely through willpower? Only those who have heard it as well can comprehend. Those, her kindred, also knew the stab at these words, hearing only that they were not strong enough, again they fail. These words did nothing to boost them, or give them strength. Anyone who said such things had never trod in their steps, lived for innumerable days in that colorless world. Some days, yes, there would be glimmers of vibrancy, a rousing shout of their minds crying, "There is hope yet! Color remains!" And for those days, they are cheered, deadened bodies reveling in the longed for sensation of life.

She tripped.
She fell.

She thought that should she die now, that moment, would many come to her grave? Would they say, "What a waste"? Would they say anything at all? Would they realize they never really knew her, would they wish they'd taken the time? They certainly wouldn't say "She did what she could with what she was given." If she was not sure what she had been given, how could they? Death had a way of making people think either that they were better friends with the deceased than they really were, or making them realize they never were friends at all. Where would her little life fall? How would she be accounted, being not among the beautiful, the smart, or the very talented. She had talent, but not enough for many people to care.

She cried.
She broke.
She slept.