As white as paper, I am devoid of emotions. I've broken the link with my past, with my past self like I should have many years ago and here I am, sitting at the edge of the world alone, paint in my hand, baffled. Should I stop the bleeding? I have stopped talking.

I am afraid. I am really afraid that I'll begin to love again. And lose it.

There is no one to hold my hand, no all-knowing guide book. No one to stop fear from penetrating. I am empty.

Who am I now, with this supposedly new found life? Where do I go when I needed a laugh or a good cry? What is my favorite color, the color in your eyes? What do I feel in my grasp, in my heart? Where do I sought out the answers? I'm trapped.

How do you spell my name? Or know how I take my coffee, or if I, at all? What about when I'm quiet? Can you read me like an open book or am I just a trail of steps written in the sand to be washed away by the waves? What do I really mean when I don't mean at all?

I don't wanna be walking in circles and I don't wanna be hurting from the same wound. All of that has to stop. I am looking at the new me in the mirror and I don't recognize her. "A crumbling, fucking mess, I'd say."

Time, they say, give time, some time.

I am drained, discolored. I am unable to speak. I am unwilling to go out into the world and mingle with strangers so we could be people who hurt each other. And so I kept to myself, my version of life and pain. And they blame me for it.

Happiness, as elusive as my past, should be right under my nose all this while and yet I am blind. Sing me the words to guide me home to you. I promise I'll listen more carefully this time. I promise I wouldn't get lost again, and no short-cuts. Wait for me at the door.

When I sit at the highest point in my life, in the dark, I see stars. I wish I was like them, so far away yet still so bright. And don't you just love the idea how some of those stars we are looking at now don't even exist anymore? Poof. Obliterated.




So what is your name, love?