March 31, 2005
I had a nightmare.
A long trail lay ahead, dark and wet, shimmering faintly in the hush of night. I walked it barefoot, each step sinking into something soft, something that clung. I didn't flinch. The cold bit at my skin, but it felt deserved—earned. I welcomed it.
No sound accompanied me. No breath of wind, no distant birdsong, not even the whisper of leaves. Just me. Me and the path that seemed to breathe beneath me.
At the end: a cliff. Still and sharp against the sky. I stopped there, right at the edge, the wind finally daring to move. It played with my hair, touched my face gently, like it was trying to comfort me. One tear fell from the corner of my eye. Only one. The rest stayed locked away, unreachable.
Above me, the moon was hidden behind thick clouds, faint light bleeding through like it, too, was hesitant to watch. It reminded me of you—there, but distant. Flickering. Cold.
Was it guilt that called this dream into being? Or maybe memory, knocking gently, pretending to be something else.
I don't know.
Maybe it's strange—I'm not angry anymore. Not like before. It's quiet inside me now.
Cold, yes, but quiet.
You took so much. And I let you. Until I didn't.
I asked for an apology. Once. But silence became your answer. So I answered back—in silence too.
The world hasn't noticed anything. They rarely do.They'll keep walking past the garden. They won't see the soil beneath their feet for what it holds.
And I won't say a word.
I just sleep a little easier now.
Not because I've forgiven.
But because there's nothing left to forgive.