It feels like silence, like the end of all things. Yet there cannot be silence, for while I still breathe there will always be words. And yet again they are silent words, too rarely spoken aloud. They flow from my fingers, not my lips. Does anyone hear my silent words? Do their eyes listen for the anguish written there? I know they see them, but are they listening?
It is silence then, and perhaps then it is the end. It could be a beginning as well...but I dare not hope for that. The things I hope for have a habit of coming true...and disappearing. It is crueler, I think, than never coming true at all. My deepest hope, my dearest dream, my only wish, was to be loved. And so it came to pass that I loved and was loved. But now...the void, having once been filled, feels all the more desolate for being emptied once more.