It’s been a while since I have written anything of substance. My pen doesn’t seem to fit between the tips of my fingers anymore, and the paper upon which I once wrote is now damp and fragile. I long to write. I long to put the cyclone of thoughts in my head down, with the hopes of making some sort of sense out of the nonsensical. Subject, verb, adjective, none suffice. None suffice today.

While all these caged thoughts swirl around, I am aware that tomorrow holds promise. A second chance at things not done, words left unwritten, and love not spoken. My fear, my worry, my reticence today is only as strong as the hours left until the sun rises tomorrow and bids the moon yet another farewell. Yes, tomorrow holds promise.

Today though, today is hard. And that’s fine—unless you say otherwise and then, of course, self-doubt creeps in and the anxiety of it all finds comfort in every nook and cranny of my body and mind. I find myself paralyzed. Paralyzed by guilt for not being strong enough. Paralyzed by shame for not having the right words. Paralyzed by anger for allowing myself to succumb to outside influences. Paralyzed by an emotion that I have yet to understand.

“I long to write. I long to put the cyclone of thoughts in my head down, with the hopes of making some sort of sense out of the nonsensical.”

Why? Why am I impossibly strong, yet my resilience falters at a few words escaping poisonous lips? They penetrate my ears, unwelcome, and somehow, within seconds, find home at the very heart of me. Am I the only one who listens so intently and regrets it almost immediately as I feel each syllable pierce scars that I thought had healed?

And suddenly, I am bleeding. Internally. A crying soul waiting to be consoled, but nobody sees tears in a storm, do they? I can’t be the only one who feels this way from time to time. Drowning in a stormy ocean of tears, alone but unexpectedly free. Because tomorrow holds promise. It’s within reach as I watch the sunset and the moon rise. As I admire the humans around me, not seeing me, but acknowledging there’s something or someone there.

And as that beautiful moon rises, I feel it. A spark. From fingertip to shoulder blade to thighs to heart. What starts as a tiny spark turns into a flaming fire within. All it takes is one person to see you, to really see you. And you’re pulled from the unforgiving storm. One person that truly understands what it’s like to be you. To see you, feel you, offer unconditional love and support, and like you, knows of tomorrow’s promise and will ride out the storm with you.

That one person who gifts you a new sheet of paper and a pen that fits perfectly between your fingertips. Who knows your soul, who offers kind words. That one person who will wake up with you tomorrow is you.