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Every moment.
Every touch.
Every breath.
Everyone.

There are seven billion people on the lonely planet.
Each completely and utterly alone
Only briefly touching each other
Only to seperate again

Everyone is a story
Every face, another tale
Every day, another page
Every step, another word

Seven Billion.
Seven Billion stories simaltaneously being written
Seven Billion Characters.
Seven Billion.

Sonder.
We all are living.

Sonder.
Noun, a realization.

Sonder.
Everyone living a life as vivid and detailed as our own.

Sonder.
I wonder if I ever mattered.
I know I don't know, now
But,
did I ever?

Did the people I tagged along with ever count me as a friend?
Did anyone even see me as having feelings?
Or was a just a means to meet an end?

When reality shattered,
Tears that came were once hope.
Hope,
draining,
streaming out,
Never to return.

I walk alone, as I always have.
Only trusting myself.
I wish I could have someone to tell me I don't need them.
But alas I tell myself.
The sky was already in mourning.
A dreadfully dreary day.
An emerald leaf crying outside of the window.  
The number on the clock had not—no would not—move. I was stuck at 4:52.
Time is a cruel master.
When you want it to go faster, it flows as fast as honey.
When you want to savor a moment,
to just slow down,
seconds become minutes,
minutes become hours,
hours become days.
But, now, time is stopped.

I hate the number 4.
It’s as though it decides to mock me the clock.
4:54.
I had been waiting for 4 months.
4 months of waiting,
listening to the clock slowly tick by
the weeks,
the days,
the hours,
the minutes.
Straining to hear the annoying,
monotone,
AOL voice to say “You’ve got mail.”
The one time I actually want to hear it, he stays silent.
A minutes flies by as I have a staring contest with the “Inbox” icon on the blue screen.

4:59.
As though it’s New Year’s Eve, I am counting down the seconds.
10, the numbers that were once were mere moments in time, suddenly became frozen hours of time.
9, the colon between the 4 and the 59 blinking in unison to an unheard beat.
8, rain drops beat against the window.
7, Are they crying for me already?
6, just breathe.
5, honestly? The last thing I can do is breathe.
4, that dreaded number again.
3, hand poised on the mouse, waiting.
2, moving it toward the little mailbox that holds my future.
1, finally...
Cold feet, bare on the first frost of winter;
Blood mixes with the unforgiving shards of glassy ice;
staining the landscape.

A barren landscape.
A barren heart.
A barren mind.
Barren.
Feeling nothing, wanting nothing.
No life, no direction.
Just...
Stop.

This land is dead.
Blanketed with depression of winter.
When will it leave?
I wanted to be happy
Truly I wanted to smile
to
Love
to
Laugh
To
Live
But
Alas I sit here
In darkness
Hoping for a ray
of light
Once Upon a Time
Words starting little girls’ dreams
How little they know
Life neither begins nor ends
Happily Ever After
A tanka
Through the wood, on a stretch of earth tainted with misery, I trudged on.
A solo performance from a lark broke the still silence;
as barren trees stood like stoic guardians.
This land is the same as it was when it was light;
the rocks are the same;
things differed are the darkness of the earth,
that it smelt now of blood and death.

— The End —