I woke up this morning with a strange kind of ache.
a quiet ache that whispered, "Tonight is holy."
Not because of stars or saints,
but because I've chosen to make it sacred in my own way.
A night where fantasy burns like fire,
flickering over the cold skin of my reality.
Where my imagination runs barefoot through shadows,
chasing comfort in the echo of what never was.
I let my thoughts drift into the quiet darkness of my bedroom
a place that once held dreams, now holds only echoes.
And I let my heart ache in the silence
for what reality has so cruelly delivered.
I tried to feed my imagination all the good it needs,
the love it craves, the warmth it dreams.
But the cost is high
Every day it takes more from me.
More than my time.
More than my peace.
More than I ever thought it would.
It takes my mind.
My sanity.
My light.
Some mornings, it feels like I'm waking up in a world
painted white while I live in grayscale,
surrounded by color I cannot feel.
And every day, my heart breaks a little louder
than it did the day before.
The hole inside me stretches,
like a wound kissed by phantom bullets.
No gun. No blood.
Just pain with no proof.
And it still hurts like hell.
Life has become a runaway ship,
no anchor, no compass,
just crashing waves of "almosts" and "maybes."
I run when my fantasy can no longer soothe my bruised reality.
I hide when the weight of existence becomes unbearable.
I shut down when the pain begs more from me
than I can afford to give.
I let go of love that isn't mine,
even when my soul aches to hold on.
I cling to hope like it's oxygen,
when even the faintest chance of being loved feels real.
But through it all,
there is still this cavern inside me
echoing with emptiness,
flooded with delusion,
frozen in emotional collapse.
So I retreat.
I dive back into my fantasy, my imaginations and my safest haven.
And If it means this reality becomes harder,
Then so be it.
As long as it means my pain finds a softer place to land,
then I'll gladly blur the line between the real and imagination
My fantasy is my medicine.
My screen is my sanctuary.
The actors, the faces, the stories,
they make me feel seen.
They make me feel… anything at all.
And yes, I'm beautiful so don't worry about that.
But even the mirror can't reflect the wars behind my smile.
So here I am,
grateful for life, yes, definitely very greatful
but not immune to the bruises it leaves behind.
I live. I breathe. I survive.
With imagination as my pillow
and loneliness as the sheets that wrap around me.
Because if I must be alone,
at least let me dream am where I am loved.