...eMpTy...SwIrLs...

The craziness surrounds me as I sit and ponder upon the rain that falls on the cold and hard window. And I scream inside, wanting to hide and yet wanting to reveal the truth. The truth that I am not what I seem. And that I cannot find a tool to fill the void that fills this dirty soul of mine that bleeds and bleeds. The bleeding doesn't stop and it never will. Because the blood it bleeds is real, so very real, so vibrant.

Red, red, crimson, red.

I shout inside, feeling every squeeze, push, and tussle of the craziness of the world. Empty swirls of dreams and blood mixed together, not knowing where or when it will stop. And no one will know that those empty swirls live and breathe and touch. That those empty swirls fill my head, my heart, my soul, with fears, regrets, nightmares!

I feel it, and I writhe in pain.

...ScRaPuLaTiNg...

A note pad is there. Right before my eyes. It calls to me and tells me to write. But I hesitate. I hesitate for when I write, I lose a part of myself. I ask myself. Am I willing? Willing to let go of a little part of my heart? Am I ready to let go of something precious, for the sake of a story that no one would ever be drawn to? I blink. Is that notebook even there? I cross over to where it is and touch the hard and worn cover. It held within it my thoughts, a laugh, a dream. A touch. And I could not find any more hesitance and so I write.

And the pen filters away all fears and coherent nightmares. It clears away the doubts lurking in the dark crevices of my unseen mind. And the pen writes and writes as if it never wants to stop, it writes letters, numbers, and draws, its black ink swirling in the dark brown paper of the torn notebook. It whirls and twirls, leaving no residue of the darkness behind as it disappears into a tiny little hole inside my soul.

So, I stop.

Lifting the pen, I give a soft smile, tweaking, tweaking until it moves into a curve as that of the Cheshire Cat. And I glance at the worn pages, filled with thoughts and words of the unknown society that my dark soul belongs to...

And here I am, scrapping...

Scrapulating...

A new hope maybe...

This maybe my last hope yet. It maybe another chance to prove that there is something valuable deep within me, that there is something substantial, amazing, electrifiying. Yes, a new hope maybe. The dawn of new dreams... Or it may be the end...

And we may never see the light of day again. And that's when things will get darker and darker and I would not be able to see and I will stumble until my heart is broken back to its fragile little pieces after I have bled my fingers trying to tape it back together again.

So... It really is a chance I must take. An opportunity I must not take advantage of. For there might not be another, and there I will feel the regret even more.. And it will eat up my insides, my mind, my soul, wretched as it is. Dark and putrid.

And when somehow, I find myself up and unscathed. Maybe, I'll smile. And tell the world that there is a new hope just around the dark corner up ahead...

Maybe...