Her Fists Clenched Tightly

November 25, 2007
Her fists clenched tightly at the threadbare blanket.
Holding it ever so tightly over her haggard, forceless body.
Her head has been situated on the pillow for so long that she's certain there will be an impression of it if she so dared to move.
feeling almost solitary, yet knowing she's not alone.
the thoughts swarming through her head let her know she'll never be unattended.
if only she had enough comprehension to clarify each individual notion.
her head would be so empty, so desolate.
she further compresses her head into the pillow, staring at the contours on the wall, each having resemblance to another turmoil in her life, constantly confining her, constantly weighing her down.
she hesitates and slowly secures the cover over her head, now fully concealed, as if to escape; as if to conserve herself.
She has no knowledge of what time it is.
Time was never something her life possessed.
Dark nights and cold beds turn into her entire presence, everything she now knows.
She trades familiar faces for silhouettes, which strangely enough leaves her impassive.
People don't perceive the situation anyway.
She must be depressed, or maybe even bipolar. I think she's anorexic, too. She never eats and she's always confined to that bed of hers, sleeping away every moment of her life.
People make assumptions instead of figuring out the truth.
They'll never grasp the reality of it.
The ups and downs are her reality, her solidity.
This whole cycle makes up her existence, her whole being.
Her eyes start to feel heavy and her lids begin to cease.
The cover is restraining her, allowing her little ability to comfortably breathe, but she lets her body do as it wishes.
She'll be asleep soon, temporarily severed from this so called subsistence.
These are the moments that she awaits, the moments when she can drift off and dream about endless possibilities until she has to succumb once again.

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