when we rise it's like strawberry fields

experiences.
i close my eyes, and i'm drowning and suffocating in the panic attack that's barely there, the current running on high through my veins and all the walls falling down. no matter how faint, it still has it's hold, and within i'm hearing all ten voices in my head at once, rambling on in different language, different tones. men, women, and children. all separate and unique. my head is spirited away to hundreds of different places and times, yet somehow remains in this cold, dark place where i'm all alone scared to move. yet somehow i can't seem to stay still, so i press my head into the ground as though somehow this will fight off the monster i know is still on it's way.

i close my eyes, and suddenly i'm seeing into the past. i'm seeing ghost and demons from before, but mostly i'm seeing the twists and turns of the days, the torments, that haunt me the most. fingers grabbing, and hands touching, and love ultimately lost. so lost.

i have to stand up. i need to. somehow. the floor is pulling me, too much weight, but i try my luck. when i fail, i feebly attempt to pull my self up using nearby furniture. an eventually that brings me into a chair.

and that's where i lose it all, or start to get something back. it's all chance.


i want to believe in the world.
i want to believe in the lost.
i want to believe in myself.

two things:
-honesty is beautiful.
yesterday i wrote your name on a piece of paper and then folded it into a star. i hung that star on my wall, with all the others, as a reminder of dreams and better things.
sometimes i like to cut all the stars down and pretend there's a meteor shower. but then i remember that shooting stars are really falling stars, and that's really all we are. we are just stars that have forgotten the things that make us fly, and some of us are just blazing and beautiful before we burn out. and die.

-it is possible to write without a heart. it is possible to write about love and loss and understanding without a heart. it is possible to write as though the heart is with me, even if it isn't. even if it's so far away my chances of getting it back are slim to none. even so. and still, that doesn't make me a liar. i still know what i feels like. however strange that seems.
sometimes i put two fingers to my wrist, trying to convince my self through biology that it's still there, but writers never trust science.

with all my (missing)heart,
Heather


ps. life is really beautiful. you just have to open our eyes.