Letters to Myself

She is.

She spends most of her time sleeping.
She dreams of what ifs and what could have beens.
She waits for something but nothing ever comes.
She snoozes her alarm clock for the fifth time.

She is tired but restless.
She is somebody but a nobody.
She is stuck in an obscure and treacherous quicksand.
She spends most of her time hoping to get out.
She spends so much of her time, that she has no more time at all.

But then she sees a branch hanging above her head.
She feels a sudden burning sensation.
In her feet and her legs.
Her fingertips to her arms.
Her chest.

There's hope in getting out.
So she reaches up as far as her arm can reach.
She touches the tip of the branch.
She looks down at the quicksand enveloping her waist.
But it's gone, her legs hang down from the branch instead.

The quicksand is a million miles below.
She stares at it, as she grasps the branch from under her.
Her grasp so tight.
From fear of falling back into a trance of nothingness.
Her heart skips on the edge of uncertainty.

Will she ever be free?
She is.
and She always was.