In silent darkness, I sit and await the dawn.

I know it will come. Though the rain lashes down in my heart, though my soul ran for cover and will not speak, I know it will come. And so, I sit.

I am empty. The purity of potential, the zero at the beginning. I sit and feel, the rain beats my heart into sweet submission and I am nothingness, I am a vessel. A void. The tears come, punctuating my apathy and I am a cloud dripping sweet nothingness onto the floor, and I am grasping for something but there is only the purity of potential.

I sit and I play hide and seek with my soul. It flickers in me, peeping like a too-distant star. Home is galaxies away, but I know it will return with the dawn. I wait with patience, for I have been here before. I have spent whole lifetimes in this place, in this emptiness; and I know I can make my bed in the blanket of silence, and I know we are never alone, me and myself.

Darkness, too, is my friend. We whisper to each other of dreams, of nothingness and the relentless rain, and we laugh sometimes through the tears. The darkness wraps me up in itself. Together we remember why we are here, now. Why we came to sit together in this emptiness once more.

The darkness takes my hand and together we travel to the ruins of who I was. A discarded shell; a fortress, blown to pieces in the light of my awakening. I fish about in the rubble for something worth bringing back but there is nothing there that moves me now. No souvenir to be had. Nothing that could compare to the beauty of the potential, that perfect zero, the place I now inhabit. And so we return to the void, and we sit and we wait for the dawn.

I know it will come. It has come before, many times. This night, though cold and empty, will pass. These tears will dry in the warmth of the sun, the clouds will clear from my heart and my soul will return. I know this rain will wash me clean, and I will have many more beautiful dreams to whisper to the darkness next time we meet. I need no fortress now for I am strong, and I find my strength in the night.

And so we sit. Me, myself and the darkness. We sit and we wait, and we whisper of dreams and storms and pure potential, and of all the beauty we will manifest into that nothingness, in the light of the sun.

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art of trauma
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