delirium

imber

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fiction comforts.

reality? it's broken. and it breaks.

there's no shorter path to healing, neither is there a way around it. things don't, in fact, work out. not on their own.

you don't always get to look at certain things years later and smile at the memory it connects you to. the unexplained emptiness could suffocate you still, the pinpricks from unseen needles all around could make you bleed still.

you don't drunk-text people and pour your heart out. you don't accidentally call someone and cry about how you miss what was and isn't anymore. you don't wake up to realize things might work out.

good dreams belong in fiction.

change doesn't always have an upside.

there's no timeline or an end to the road you're in the middle of. no fast-forward, or a tiny peek into what eventually becomes of you.

but lucky for you, your life isn't written in black ink on yellowed pages. your wrists aren't tied together with ropes made out of character trait tags. you're human.

and you breathe.

you don't have to wait for the force of intoxication to stumble forward into a more honest version of yourself. or stand on the verge of insanity to scream out a sincere apology.

reality might be a slideshow of nightmares sometimes, but if you try hard enough to drown out the taste of your artificially sweetened dreams,

your eyes might fall on the previously locked doors already broken down for you.

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*rain; shower; rainfall