the threads in her head

Waking up at the sound of 6am everyday.

It doesn’t matter what time you’ve slept the day before. It’s just time to take the wheel. So you may sleep at the wheel, crash through the day, end up in a wreck. But, it’s time to take the wheel.

This was meant to be a new day, a better tomorrow. But I hear no birds and see no sun. All I see are snapshots of the yesterdays; and you pull a heavy bag towards you, and slung it onto your shoulders.

Stand tall, back straight, even if the weight of the bag is pulling you down. Even when the heaviness lies in the heart. And don’t say I don’t understand, for I’ll tell you this: you may want to crouch up into a little ball, knees tucked under your chin, thighs pulled towards your chest, and hug yourself tight, but you can’t provide warmth to yourself.

Let the tears flow if you want, but tears are no manifestations of the troubles that ail your heart. The relief it provides is for a period of time, only. A short period of time that is but a strand of fiber on the translucent veil of time.

So lean your head against the hard cold glass of the bus's windows, and close your weary eyes. Just remember to wake up. For it'll be your turn at the wheel soon.