This one's a little different. But it's been floating around the past several nights as I tried to go to sleep. So I wrote it. And today rewrote it. There's probably a few more rewrites, but I thought I'd just put it out there and not obsess too much.
JOURNEY THROUGH THE WASTELAND
Lost in a fog, unable to see anything, wrapped in a murky cloak of grief. The cloak was simultaneously a cloud swirling around her, blocking out any light, and heavy as lead, weighting her down so that it was difficult to move. It squeezed her tight, she was only able to take shallow breaths. She struggled to take deep breaths, the voices outside kept telling her to breathe. Sometimes she would manage a deep breath and the grief would pour in, a mist of fine black cinders burning into her bringing her to her knees from the shock and pain. She was unable to loosen the cloak, it had its job to do. It protected her from the miasma of despair, the pain reminded her she was still alive as she blindly wandered through the dense, gray fog, unable to see any light, any way out. She often stumbled and fell, the breath knocked out of her, all she could do was lie there sobbing. Eventually she would get back to her feet, weighted down by her mantle, and begin to walk again. She walked and she walked, unable to see, no landmarks to refer to, she often was not sure if she was going anywhere or just walking circles. In the distance she heard the voices of those who loved her, calling to her. Muffled by the fog, she was unsure where they were, where to go. But she continued to move, because even if she was going in circles, there was still hope that she could find her way out.
Eventually, the cloak began to loosen. Just a bit, but enough for her to breathe normally again. Sometimes she would still inhale a cloud of burning cinders and still it would bring her to her knees, sobbing from the pain. But it happened less and she had become accustomed to it. She would rest a bit and then struggle back to her feet to continue walking. And either the cloak had become lighter, or she had become stronger, or maybe a combination of the two, but she no longer felt like she was being crushed. She tired easily and had to frequently rest, but getting up and moving was no longer such a struggle.
The fog began to lift, just a bit. At first she felt relieved. At last there was something she could see. Then despair set in, all she saw was a colorless, desolate wasteland, as if a volcano had erupted, burning away all life. Tree stumps stood eerily throughout and everything was covered in a fine gray ashen dust. Disconsolate, she collapsed. Hope for sunshine and life had kept her moving, she had thought if only the fog could lift, she could find her way out. Grief blanketed her as she lie there, curled up crying, the gut wrenching sobs of heartbreak and anguish, of hopelessness. She remained there for a very long time, sapped of hope, sapped of strength, exhausted to the core of her being. She rested and slept dreamlessly. One day she heard faint calls, once again the voices of those that loved her. They had not given up on her, they called to her, doing what they could to guide her back into the sunshine.
Once again, she rose to her feet, something inside her would not let her quit, would not let her give up. So she stood, her legs shaky. She began a slow walk. This time, without the fog distorting the sounds, she could hear the voices a little more clearly. She was able to see the obstacles and walk around them or climb over them. She left footprints in the ashes and knew she was not walking in circles, although sometimes she had to double back and circle around to find her way out. And little by little, her inner guide came back to life, whispering in her head where to go. She walked. Up hills, down valleys, up mountains. Sometimes the fog would return, but it was just in spots and she was able to keep moving forward. The landscape remained bleak, mostly dead and lifeless. But every so often, she could hear birdsong, feel a warm breeze, she would spot a small green sprout and she knew she was moving closer and closer to the land of the living. She wore the cloak of grief more loosely now. It would always be with her. Sometimes she still inhaled the burning cinders, they still caused pain and tears, but it no longer caused the shock. Most of the time she could breathe normally and even deeply without the burning pain, but when it came, she knew she could survive it. The voices of those she loved, those that loved her, became louder and clearer. The journey had stripped her down, forced her deep within, made her stronger and she knew that when she returned, she would have stories, stories that could help others when they were forced on the journey through their own wasteland.
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