I can only dream for so long, before they become nightmares

It was non like her to hide herself away, today she debatemed to a greater extent tortured, f refineened. She was a ghost to herself, unable to surround herself with the illusions that conjured her putrid smile. In the corner she continuously laid, like a silhouette of dreams saved, yet captured by the ambience of life itself. The intelligence of her once intrigued mind fell short with the eonian shivers of things that once were. Do I seem myself do I seem happy to others? Does my pro wideed absence from the world affect the way people see me?I cant continuously be so positive, life has taught me that much. But Ive tried for so long to see the good to see the light thats suppose to forever shine upon me, yet its so far beyond my reach, save much I try, my jealous being stops me entirely, tying me down, chaining me to the withering of existence that is me. I can only dream for so long, before they become nightmares. Nightmares I cant escape Within her mind was always the agitate d concept of distrust, yet however she placed it, she could not seem to dictate what effect it would have on her.Unwilling to except the hand of others, she struggled with the journey of living and the tragedy of knowing. To be somebody that people noticed, was a dream she could only imagine through the echoing walls that held her from the person she aimed to be, yet as the darkness of the walls and the lights of the windows framed her vicious circle, she could only nous the memories. Her mother was a kind, genuine creature, who always showed her that in that respect was more(prenominal) to life, then just co-existing. But she could never see the beauty which her mother would talk about.Her go had left at an early age, leaving only a hole of bitterness and resentment in her unprotected heart that would always question her mogul to live. She never thought of him as someone that loved her, but as someone who could not handle the concept of having a child. To think is to disembo died spirit, and thats not a journey worth pickings. Can searching for an answer too graphic to understand be a conflict, and can you reach for something surreal and pray that its not an abstract illusion? If finding out the meaning of what once was, forces out the beauty from which it came, can I be judge of what I feel is right?So my father left me when I was young, and my mother blames herself for his disappearance, yet I feel compelled to still find him and ask those questions that haunted me for the last few years. So I play a game in my mind, a game that allows me to dictate the outcome, and that provides me with the acceptance of his cowardly soul. If I look through him, can I see what ambition he had? Can I tell his story through my eyes? Yet Ive grown out of caring about his circumstance emotions, or the way his smile is.Time was never on her side, but it was a factor that she become used to. A timeless presence of doubt was always abundant, it clawed and ripped apart the person she once knew, choking and crushing the things that seemed put forward in her. Her father was her source of doubt. Like a demon, holding her to him, acquiring tighter as she grew older, but She would always think about him and the day he left, but never for too long, there was a voice inside of her that protected her from the bellowing and shame of his once gentle voice that always seemed to settle her as she slept.The controllable aspects of her mind always vanished when she left her corner. She was obligated to stay there never to move, never to feel the way others did. Her mother thought she was doomed to a life on her own, a life that could only bring torture and destruction. Nothing was foreseeable in her darkened future, the lines were scratch out, living a complex life so full of confusion and sorrow. As the night colonized in and the luminous light was but a figment of what once was, she dwelled in the opportunity of delusions and fiction.And as she swayed from side to side, holding her legs ever so tightly, the images of her youth seemed to pour out of her like a twisted play acted out by the misapprehension of others. To seem as normal as possible was always her goal, finding the fault in the memory of others and not herself, but that was a game too complicated for her to play out. The night was colder than usual more putrid, more harmful, its shivering wind was almost alive, playing with the restless and fearful.She could not move, she could not breathe, her reactions were slow, almost as if something was holding her down, and taking away the very essence that is her. I cant move, I cant feel, is it my time. The air is so cold, I cant seem to warm myself up. If I move I know Ill become insane, the melody of deformed creatures, is move glorious than usual. I am a ghost to myself, a plague which Ive grown accustomed to. Can I play out the things that seem to be awake? an I change the meaning of words that I dont know and rehearse them till they become the knowledge that changes my situation? My mother has tried for so long to recreate the image I have made for myself. The image that I am now has scared her. She never looks at me the same anymore, her looks are more disgusted, more tortured and they seem to be on fire. I can feel her slipping away from me. The night is the only time I dont feel safe, I dont feel like me, its cruel and mindless, possessing a nature of a different kind.If I run, how far will I reach before it swallows me, taking away all that I am, in the night I am a monster, a nightmare that would bring tears to all that saw me. In her mind she was the very motive of all the suffering and pain to others around her, she could only escape the nightmare if the sun was up, for its rays of purity and truth were the only reason she had not become the thing that seemed to corrupt her. She was the meaning which you could not find, the lonely hero that was only visible through the sun. It seemed that nothing w ould be able to deviation her from herself. A soul forever doomed.