The Brighter Side

Waking up around six,

A young maiden trudged down the stairs of her home.

Her hair unmade,

Her face unfinished,

Her body disorderly,

Her mood:

Calm.

This will be the day she seized.

She grabbed her favourite mug,

Tainted with age, she adored it.

She liked to say that

It reminded her of herself sometimes:

Ancient,

Fragile,

And adorned with colour.

With her morning coffee drunk,

And her toast making its way through her tired bloodstream,

She began to move.

Two papers to write,

Ten songs to sing,

Three people to message.

She waits for an answer from whatever force commands her,

Then

she moves on,

Awaiting her next call.

Around noon,

Her mind begins to tire out.

She knows that if she pushes for another hour

Her hand will no longer feel like her hand

And she would’ve run out of things she could say.

But hey, she says, that’s that.

Just as much as she knows she can’t do anything about it,

She knows how much she can.

By the late afternoon,

Everything is about to break.

She wipes her forehead,

Clears off the makeup which she used to define her face for the day,

Said she was fine before she went to bed

And gave in to the heavy and pulsating thought

That,

Although she believed she wasn’t good enough,

She knew and

believed with all her soul,

That If

she repeated that to herself time and time again that

That very thought

Is what kept her from seeing

the brighter side.