The Poet

There once was a poet, dressed in a black attire. The choice of this attire was not coincidental, more like a natural instinct, like one would choose water, over fire, or flying over drowning. The black was an instinctive choice, for it reflected the mourning of her heart. She was grieving. But it was silent. A silent grief, unlike the grief that could cause screams of despair, tears of a torn heart. It was a silent mourning, perhaps no one could even tell it was happening.

But she could.

She could feel it. Despite her outer appearance, her insides were burning. Despite not screaming on the outside, there was a muffled scream emanating from the depths of her soul. It was a silent scream, quite hard to describe. For how do you describe a sound inaudible to the ear? How do you describe a feeling imperceptible to the eye? How do you speak a language misunderstood by the tongue?

Dressed in all black, she wandered across the land in search of a temporary relief to her longing. But, as people say, life goes on. And so did she. Life went on and she went along with it, in her black attire, searching, while living despite the state of her soul. And sometimes when her soul would burn too much, when her heart would have this unquenchable thirst again, she would stop and drink from the well of Love. She could not always find the way to it, but when given the blessing to, she did, and she drank, and drank, and drank, until she was relieved for a moment that felt too short, but eternal.

She wondered,

“How do i live in a world where i feel out of place, wherever i go, whatever i do, my heart does not settle.

How do i live, a life as a constant stranger, to everyone and everything?

How do I live?

How?"

-h