The Art of Feelings

The Windowsill

There was a little girl, who used to sit on her windowsill, letting her body hang freely in the air. The wind would brush against the little bruises upon her leg. She would lift her arms into the air, letting her miseries and fears slip away – the air work its magic upon all the scars up her arm.  Through moist and snow, she never faltered to spend those 13 minutes every day sitting in a spot where only she could feel free at last.

Every night, at the brink of midnight, she would steady herself on the windowsill, sliding herself slowly farther and farther away from her bedroom and into the clear free skies, bracing herself with those arms that she had once harmed just not long before.

Why she depended so heavily on them were such a mystery. She constantly relied on them to hold her steady, as if they were the gateway between her reality and the freedom she so long desired.

She felt trapped in her own world, with nowhere left to climb but a windowsill. With nowhere left to run but a small little rectangle in the back corner of her room. With nothing to rely on but the kind and soothing wind, always blowing in a new direction, beckoning her touch. Somewhere she finally felt she belonged. Somewhere she finally felt… Different. Special. Free.

She wanted to be among the stars. She wanted to fly among the wind. She wanted the freedom and the happy whispers and glistens they so often displayed. She wanted her arms to finally let her roam free.

On the final night, as she stood in her little shower with a thick blade in her hand, hacking at the one thing that she wished would stop reminding her of her true reality. Of everything that stood in front of her holding her back.

She let the crimson drip, little red spot after another from the shower, to the carpet, and finally to the windowsill. She sat on her windowsill, letting her legs hang freely in the air. The wind would brush against the little bruises upon her leg. She would lift her arms into the air, finally free at last, letting her miseries and fears slip away, letting the air work its magic upon all the new scars up her arm. Little red dots stained her clothing and flew all over her face. Little droplets from her eyes joined them. She screamed for everything that she had been holding in. Every little scar upon her arm. Every little bruise upon her leg. Every little wound upon her heart. Every little empty desire and empty truth upon her head.

This time, she did not stay for 13 minutes.

It did not take her long to finally realize… That to touch the stars, to soar among the wind, to finally roam free… She had to give up… Falling.

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