In the quiet hours of the night,
I embark on a journey,
a solitary path winding through
the labyrinth of my mind,
where shadows congregate,
and echoes of trauma linger,
like whispers in the dark,
reminders of battles fought in silence.
Searching for fragments of myself,
I sift through the rubble of memories,
each one a stone,
each one a weight—
some spark joy,
while others cut like glass,
sharp with the pain of what was lost,
the upheaval that reshaped my world.
I navigate the flashbacks,
scenes that burst forth uninvited,
a film reel of chaos,
where I am both captive and witness,
each frame a reminder
of the fragility of my mental health.
Alone in this vast expanse,
I feel the weight of solitude,
but in the silence, I find resilience,
a quiet truth that rises with the dawn—
surviving, yes, but healing too,
a slow unraveling of the knots
that tether me to despair.
With each step forward,
I reclaim my spirit,
a tapestry woven from threads of struggle,
an evolving narrative of strength,
where pain, once a tyrant,
becomes a teacher,
and the scars shift from shackles
to symbols of survival.
So I tread carefully,
not erasing, but honoring,
the landscapes of my past,
learning to carry them lightly,
like petals in a breeze,
letting them fall where they may,
as I continue this sacred journey—not alone,
but accompanied by whispers of hope.

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