KEEP TO THE MARGINS
The less she felt the less she wanted to feel. She was a January river, tucked coldly into the darkness far beyond the reach of human eyes. The world, robbed of all its color, shone that much brighter for its simplicity. Sorrow brushed by her like the midnight wind whistling unacknowledged, unable to penetrate the veil of her dreams. With time, even her dreams faded to gray. She found a blissful numbness somewhere between black and white, but she couldn't run away from her memories. They lived beyond her numbness and haunted her in a way her dreams could not. In the sunshine of her memory she saw the unforgettable color of her mother's hair and felt the softness of her favorite blue and yellow striped sweater. She remembered the smell of her fathers cologne, and the way he would hang pink paper hearts from her bedroom window. No matter how gray her life had been the memory of beauty lingered in the margins like the song of a bird that, unseen among the branches, filled the January morning with sunshine.