Muted Madness

By Rawan Olma

   Her 2 P.M. thoughts were beginning to sound like her 2 A.M. heartaches. She was no longer the chaotic, raging hurricanes underneath porcelain skin. She was the pitiful black and white movie scenes of soaked poetry created in the midst of a 12 A.M. downpour, the tremor of rolling thunder matching the helpless quivering of her body.
   The deafening silence of the darkness overtook her and the sun became a faint, archaic memory. If that powerful creature of four years ago could have seen herself now, she would have surely thrown her head back bursting into laughter. It was all a joke;­ it had to be. She was a goddess, exuberant and loud. Her words left people on the edge of their seats and her confident presence alone captivated people, brought them to their knees. But how was she to know that her glory would be so short lived? 
   Silence overtook her like a disease. It started off slow,­ an offhanded comment here or there that was immediately brushed off. Deep down, however, it left a small yet resonating sting. As time went on, the voices from the outsides got louder than she was and they burrowed their way into her brain, the muted madness quickly spread through her body. She became the antagonist of her own story, but even more so the silence turned her into a cannibal. Her inarticulate worries ate her up alive. She lived in the shadows of all the whispered "what ifs" that orchestrated every second. Her mouth became a graveyard of unsaid words.There are days when she would be writing eulogies for who she once was. Perhaps she was still there, merely buried deep beneath the endless miles of fear and agony. Not completely dead, but not completely alive either. Stranded in her own skin, waiting for the day she could be unlocked and set free once again.

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