Imaginings for a Struggling Friend

I wanted to pinch her. Couldn’t she see that there was life at her fingers, and she had only to grasp it? The overwhelming wave of black materialism had drowned her. Swim to the light, swim to the light. Spirit dampened, she clawed her way to the shore, face pressed on the gritty sand, but she had since given up the emotions to feel. The aura that surrounded her was a dark mist of gray in which she masochistically enjoyed, but blinded others. They say that the 20s is a time where young ones, such as ourselves, are at the cusp of something intangibly great…adventure, thrill, desire, and passion, all ours for the taking. We reap what we grow. We cultivate what we dwell on. Our passions, put to use, bloom. Her fingers brush against the uncomfortable weight of gray matter that is slowly consuming her, turning her eyes gray, her mood…gray. She brushes it away, sees clearly that there across the beach is a cottage. It is warm, bright, and comfortable, with many wild flowers blooming among the dry dune-grass. She finds herself being pulled to the door: cracked, and weathered as if beaten by the coastal storms, though it remains charming, wise even. Her hand finds the knob of clear glass, and she turns it. Another feeling overwhelms her; this time it is purpose and passion. She is gifted with dreams and they flash like future-memories through her mind: her wide, red-lipped smile; the steam blowing off a mug of coffee; his bright blue eyes. She doesn’t feel the gaping tight blockage in her chest, the worry of tangible things that do not matter. She crosses to the lit hearth, and from the blackened pot she boils a cup of tea…rests on the comfortable couch, and watches the black tail of a feline swish around a corner, and soft paws leap atop her lap. Mulling it over, she knows exactly what she should do next. Do you? Pinch.


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