Letting go is a blissful feeling. It can be lovely and soft, drifting away from the problems you though you had, but in the end you can get this bittersweet feeling that what once was a mere whisper of a thought is now a symphony of unspoken words six feet underground with nobody but yourself to mourn.

It has been so long since that symphony had sung it’s lonely howl to me. I’ve learned to let it drift away on the thin string of red yarn that was my fate at some point, but if I listen closely in the deepest depths of the night, hidden away beneath my ribs and lungs and in between my organs and the sound of my breathing, I can hear it pulsing, begging silently for a chance to claw it’s way out of my chest and into the cruel, cruel world once again.

There is only so much damage that whisper can do. I have entrapped it, buried it, but perhaps instead of having it scratch at closed wounds in the recesses of my heart, I could offer it some peace.

Yes, sweet, relaxing peace. If only the cause of this whisper, this raging orchestra, was not the sweetest drug in the entire world that had intoxicated me was not the daily thing I face everyday.

If only, this symphony wasn’t just created by one single instrument, instead of two.

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