Life, only

She once figured out that heaven was simply sitting with your eyes
closed to the sun next to an open window in a fast-moving car. She
surprised herself every time she thought of such things- after all, it
proved she wasn't as shallow as everyone thought she was. Was she? What
was this aching desire to be accepted, and what was this disbelief at
finding that, after all, she was- and for nothing more than being
herself. She was used to having to pretend. No one ever knew what she
thought about, she thought deeply. And in the middle of the night she
would reach out into the blackness with her hand and wonder if this was
all that existed: her breathing, the rough embrace of the bedclothes,
and the heat. What she could remember- kisses, clasped fingers,
sunshine or stage lights- did it ever happen? The night world was her
own cocoon, and all else melted away into dream-soaked abyss.
She longed to be profound, but noticed that whenever she was struck
with inspiration there was never a means of recording it and so it was
left to turn over and over in her mind until it didn't make sense any
more. SHe wrote stories of everything (and nothing), still yearning for
a true voice- wanting to be consistent. She felt too much, that was her
problem. And when she knew things it wasn't just a knowledge, but a
deep-seeded sensation that she mustn't tell (a lock and a key around
her promise). But sometimes it was enough for her just to exist, even
when she loved too much, and felt like her heart would split from the
heat of it.