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fighting with the night
She grew up knowing the best way to express herself, her feelings, her desires and her worries through writing.

Whenever she wanted money for snacks, she would sneak a note under her fathers cup of tea and run to hide in the next room.It was a norm he was used to, hated it but he knew that’s how best she expressed herself.
She wasn’t shy, but she just choked on words. With time, she outgrew this nature.
Learn’t how to open up and aggressively chase here desires. Life as it was, was not confined in the web of ink.
Courage joined in the ride of her dreams. She no longer slipped notes to express her feelings. People told her that she was an inspiration because she was bold. A commando of words and a fighter for what she believed in.

Now that is changing. She fights with the night.

See growing up has its perks. Its desires, its fulfillments, Its tears, its everything.
Sometimes the span of the growth cheats us into believing that we are grown and that dealing with the fear of a void clipped by the night is just something we see on television. We find that we easily choke on words. Not because we fear, but because we just can’t express that which bothers us. It’s like an invisible ogre of sadness blankets the night. Unexplainable. So we write.
Her screams of silence resound in the walls of her heart. Her smiles charm and bring out the effect of happiness. But in the night she fights. She had a routine. Every evening throwing the handbag on the couch, switching on the tv-CNN walking to the kitchen to make dinner , heading to the shower and sitting down to eat.

Now all she does is, throw her handbag on the couch, switch on the TV flip channels and watch comedy central because she needs to laugh. Dinner she will cook later.
The night calls it loneliness. But how can one be lonely and alone in a world where she is surrounded by love. People who love her. People who care. It’s a feeling that cannot be explained. Can’t be understood. Because even to her it does not make sense.
The days are beautiful, the hustle of the struggle to make an extra dollar makes her forget the arm that folds across her chest at night. The arm that grips her with sudden worry of nothingness. You know when you worry of the unknown. You stare and wonder, what the hell is wrong with me? But it is what it is.

So just like the young girl who would write a note to her father, she now writes so that she can understand this fear the ogre brings in the night. She is a fighter but the night proves to be the winner.

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