Solitude.

A lone candle lights the room; the tiny flicker paints a portrait of shadows upon the wall. The faint gray and black images of her body dance on the wall as she pours her heart out. Furiously she scribbles; she knows if it’s on paper the thoughts are out of her head, they can’t haunt her anymore; they can’t ruin the flicker of happiness inside. So she sits and digs the pen into her notebook; with each stroke she engraves a story, a lesson, a memory… But just as the candle burns dimly around her, shadows begin dancing inside. The demons are running now, taking every thought, every emotion is-was-hijacked. Frantic, she digs harder on the page, a story now forming; her life unfolding like a rose, petal by petal, she opens until a glorious being is shown. The hate inside escapes as each petal opens, the shadows shrinking as the rose unfolds. The demons now gone with no darkness to hide in; all she has now are her angels in the light of the open flower. So with each stroke of the pen comes another petal until the pages are filled. One day she’ll look upon those pages and remember her shadows, the flicker, but now, she is consumed with the light. Instead of the shadows dancing, it is she, open and free, no more shadows to haunt.