I wrote this kinda late yesterday, so I'm publishing it now the next day.

 

Unlived

She sat with them, happy.

She sat with them, a rare joy.

She sat with them, being herself—or trying.

She sat there in one of the few amazing moments of her life.

…

She walked with them, through the night.

She listened as they talked, sometimes joining.

She rarely spoke, however.

That was her way—as long as she could remember.

It could be hell, but it was life.

…

She ate with them, laughing and talking occasionally.

She ate with them, the so-so meal much better with friends.

And, yes, these were her friends, she supposed.

These were her friends, she hoped.

…

And then she had to leave.

If only she could stay.

She wanted to stay all night.

She wanted to be with them.

She wanted to have that experience.

She wanted to live.

…

She lay in her bed in the dark in the silence.

She stared at the ceiling and thought of her life and what she’d not done.

She, unmoving unblinking unfeeling,

Unknowing yet knowing,

Uncaring yet dreaming,

Unconscious yet watching,

Unlived.

…

She found it hard to

Be a human

When not near

Other humans

 

She found it hard to

Feel good

When she wasn’t

Who she could

 

She thought this was life

And she’d just live it

She thought she’d grow old

Or die young

She thought she’d do nothing

Nothing she wanted

She thought she’d do everything

Everything she displayed dispassionate passion in.

 

Now she knew

That she could be better.

Now she knew

That she could be happy.

Now she knew

She could love herself.

And now she knew

That she could be herself.

 

For all that is unlived,

Is yet-to-be-lived.

All that is not-done,

Is simply not-yet-done.

All she was missing,

For all her years,

All she wasn’t feeling,

For those cold dark years,

All she was wanting,

Yet believed were beyond reach,

All that she needed,

Was suddenly hers.

…

And so she returned,

To her friends.

And so she gained,

A lived-loved life.

 

And so she stayed.

 

- Lily