She looked again at the words she'd written.  It was relieving to get the words on paper.  Like siphoning off a portion of her pain and bottling it in the words.

The pressure in her chest lessened as she poured herself onto the page.  But it was still there.  The difficulty breathing, speaking around the tears the refused to come.

She felt cut off.  Even when others were present, it seems she had forgotten how to connect with them.  But it was worse when no one was there.

The chasm between her and the rest of the world seemed to widden.  The sun seemed to burn rather than warm.

Surely there was someone else who understood?

Yet everyone seemed in a hurry for her to move on.  Had it really been so long that she should have forgotten?  That the pain should have dulled?

She shook her head.  Surely she was allowed to grieve at her own pace.  Time did not heal all wounds at the same rate.  Why couldn't they leave her alone?

But she didn't want to be alone.  Alone was worse.  Dark.

Really everything seemed dark.  There was no real color in the world any more.  It was all dull--grays and browns.  Nothing to cheer the soul.

Spring should be coming, but rain pounded outside--as if the world shared in her pain.  What flowers there were could not raise their heads.  They were bent down under the rain.  Bent as in sorrow.

She picked up her pen again.  The words needed to be released.  The cry's of her soul needed to be expressed before she choked on them.