Ink-smudged paper spoke of her woes.
The empty bottles proved how her life was a mess,
Yet all the while she kept her pain close.
It was the wind that sated her ache
The sun that bathed her in affection;
The sea that embraced her like her own
She knew she had found love which she always thought was fiction.
It was love that she had found in solitude
A love that she found in melody
A love that kept her going
Especially through moments when she was moaning.
She was morbidly conscious of the pain of loneliness, the agony of her dreams being misinterpreted, the misery of being brought to reality- unprepared. Her dreams often involved a world whose paraphernalia evoked happiness and brought her closer to the warmth of her loved one.
She often dreamt of freedom…
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