Leave me on a desserted island with nothing but a pen and a piece of paper; with those, I shall create myself another world.

Sunday, July 22, 2012

An Insomniac

It was hard to see such a beautiful soul grow so sick and tired all the time. It was difficult seeing that broken look on her face, glimpsing that tear in her eye that shimmers out of pity for herself. It was difficult to imagine she was once so young, so full of youth, health and well-being. That must have been what she was thinking too. Everytime her face flushed red and her facial expressions transformed to sorrow, she must have thought of what she used to be. How does a person go through that? How does a person go from being a child to a youth to an adult to someone who is aging? How do they have the strength to witness themselves grow weaker and weaker? I wondered. It hurt me. It scared me. But I was certain her fears and pains were far far more aching than mine. Because they always kept her up at night. Every night.

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