Places to HideĀ 

Starless nights can make the smallest of sounds seem sinister. There isn’t much we can do when Time isn’t moving forward; when it can’t be found even when we delve into the depths of our own darkness to see if we might have possibly misplaced it there. Inside ourselves, the only place that remains without stars is our shadow, soundlessly floating everywhere we go. Poor old Hope doesn’t know that it casts the shadow of Despair from its own self when it’s looking everywhere for Light. I had tried peeling off my own shadow so many times, until I understood that it is cast only because there must be Light somewhere. 
Time can be vicious, playing the same hour over and over again till you end up at the far end of September thinking, how have I managed to come here? And at the horizon of October, shadows play at the edges, I can see them. Starless nights stretch far out to blanket me, as cozy as the comfort inside mediocrity. As warm as the stove kept on for years together, cooking nothing. As overcast as the shadows that have kept poor old Hope company through the years. 

If you find Time, that Troublemaker, tell him I’m looking for him. He owes me an explanation. 

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PatternsĀ 

This morning, I woke up remembering something happy. The last time this happened was when my first crush/love left his football at my lunch table and I felt really special at 14. 

What I know more than anything else in the last 10 years is dread. How can I tell my brain that all will be well when all the poor thing has been simmering in acidic dread for years, fearing that good thing always rot away into blackened bad. 

Do I even believe that good is happening? I have proof, but what is a memory when the future still hasn’t coloured it in? What is a sweet text when I can’t see the person’s face as he reassures me? 

Patterns repeat. The deepest patterns are left by the biggest blows. Like an axe whipping itself into the soft wood for the first time; and the tree knowing that it is just the beginning. The dreadful axe in a hopeful tree; the sweet, old tree still trying to cram hope between the spaces left behind by the axe. 

Dread and hope in swirling patterns like glitter and tar. What colour will the happy memory be when I wake up a month from now?