She doesn’t have follow one single train of thought in her mind, in fact she doesn’t have a clue where she’s going sometimes, but she does have doors in her head, closed dusty old doors, guarded by armies of vicious vocabulary and when anyone ever got close in the past they would fire damning nasty spiteful words, always their aim to stop, if not maim any intruders. She stung people with the simplest of comments and strangely gained enjoyment from this, but it was mostly brought about by fear that someone was getting too close, that they were trying to sneak past her in some way to help themselves to the bounty of information behind those doors.
Nothing brought her anger out more than someone trying to get a closer look, trying to find those things behind them that left her open and vulnerable and the thought of anyone having any piece of her that could be used as a weapon at a later date horrified and scared her more than any mind demon ever could. Maybe that’s why even now she tries to keep those doors closed. She’s a hoarder, hoards moments in time, remnants of situations and the emotions they carried behind each one. Only when she’s alone does she sneak through those doors into the avenues beyond, sometimes searching for the right words, sometimes confronted by them in huge bright flashing neon letters that blind her completely but always looking for answers.
She never runs down those avenues, she trudges slowly, taking in whole paragraphs of memories she’s scratched on those aging walls and sometimes finding she’s been holding her breath tight as she’s reached out her hand to grasp something bright that caught her eye. Small things like fireflies of happiness flitting through the darkness and thunderbolts of ideas that she’s never shared. Finding words that hum and buzz and sometimes desperately searching until her head is filled with noise and her thoughts are crushed with hundreds of tiny snippets of past and present stinging at her mind. Its then she cries until it all get washed away in an avalanche of cleansing tears.
Fear dashes between those doors, sometimes never showing its face and sometimes jumping out to scream in hers, its breath searing her cheeks and stinging her eyes.
Those avenues are lonely places, yet lately she finds when she walks them she can’t seem to leave without bringing something out with her. The times she’s found herself almost caught in those doors, trapped tight, as fear tries to slam them shut before she leaves, dragging on the remnant she clutches and trying to return it to its rightful place, pinned yet again on some aging wall behind the doors.
Her fingers burn from being caught in those doors, her heart aches every time fear screams in her face and her soul feels pain each time she parts with those remnants. She knows her heart and soul have much more to endure and fear will continue to scream but she also knows each tiny remnant that finds it way beyond those doors takes away the hold fear has and one day it will have no hold at all. She made this possible, she battles those doors, she pulls them open, she has to learn to keep them open and trust a little, and she brings pieces of herself from those avenues and thinks it is the only way she can free herself completely.