Fighting, I sit

I sit.

Thin slivers of light enter my room from the faint diffuse street lamps outside. Row upon row of twinkling bars they form, an outline of the world outside. A war rages inside.

It's quiet. The breeze cools the crystal tears upon my cheeks, tracing a faint outline of the grief that dwells within. Its cadences and waveforms break upon the rock of my mind, and tears, unbidden, begin anew.

The grief that dwells within runs rampant, a morose darkness that sweeps across the expanse of my virgin happiness, desecrating, destroying.

I sit.

My hands clasp around my knees, wrapped tightly around my body, as if to shield that which is within from that which is without. The darkness, my friend, my lover, my only consolation from the opposition that exists in the light.

It's dark. An empty roar, the sound not of wind but of the air itself. Dragged objects. The crickets hum outside, a hum repeated as if to a great, spiraling infinity, I listen.

The grief is one I can defeat. But it is fed from without, from and unending torrent of passion, emotion and fiery violence.

I sit.

Motionless, where I must. Chilled to the bone from the reverberating footsteps that signal a return to my grief, and a feeding of the inner daemon. The sacrifice of my inner resistance upon an altar built from tears and blood.

I shudder. Sounds that walk by. I shudder at the tremors in the ground, at the light touch of the breeze against my skin.

Taut, coiled elastic as a tremulous snake, I hold my ground and clasp my knees. The war rages inside.

Fighting.

Fighting.

Fighting, I sit.