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chrisfel eliza

I don't think I think enough.
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
Be sweet, November.


'Cause everybody knows, that nobody really knows
How to make it work, or how to ease the hurt
We've heard it all before, that everybody knows
How to make it right
John Legend


Sprawled across the bed, she stared blankly up at the ceiling. Thoughts spun wildly within her head, some good, others bad, most of them sad. She held the tears back just as the sky outside her window held the rain from falling 'neath the grey skies. The wind blew and people walked past her window. Save me, save me from this, she spoke in her head.

In the afternoon of the first of November, she lay herself still on her bed. As the people who held onto their beliefs and traditions remembered the dead, the unpleasant past summoned into her mind. They were alive again and for a moment, she felt a bit of pain sting within her. The present was just as unattractive. She wished she could be better, to be able to live up to others' expectations. But it seemed that whatever she does, despite giving her best, she ends up failing herself. Failing others. I'm sorry I'm not good enough, she thought. A drop of tear fell from the corner of her right eye and she closed both her eyes tightly to prevent a waterfall of tears. She was tired of crying. Tired of being sad. She needed to learn to be much stronger, to be better. Inside.

She appears strong and tries her best to be so, but sometimes, when it cannot be helped, she breaks down. Breaks apart. Breaks herself. She prayed unto God. Spoke to Him, as she always does. Daily. Sometimes she would close her eyes and imagine being held in Christ's arms; she always felt better moments later. How could One love me so much, unconditionally, even when I don't deserve it? she thought to herself. But she keeps holding on to Him, hoping for all the good that is yet to come. 

She closed her eyes as she escaped the present in a slumber. Dusk was fast approaching and the grey skies turned to a wistful shade of pink. Maybe, just maybe, her head would be filled with happy dreams; the kind of happiness she longed to belong in her reality.

She would open her eyes and it would be tomorrow. Please let it be better, please let it be better, she would never run out of hope.

You're getting sadder, getting sadder, getting sadder, getting sadder 
And I don't understand, and I don't understand 
But if I kiss you where it's sore 
If I kiss you where it's sore 
Will you feel better, better, better?
Will you feel anything at all?
Regina Spektor

chrisfel at 05:30