Pain. One word aptly encapsulating the array of merciless and unrelenting monsters torturing her on a nightly basis, and the myriad of unwanted emotions they awake and summon from the sealed basement of her subconscious: the foundation of the place they are haunting each and every night.

At night her mind becomes a haunted house.

She dreams of pain only to wake up to it, and live in it. Comfort is a necessity in the passive and unconscious ritual of calling a set of walls a home, elevating it into something that transcends matter and time, something sacred. Without comfort those walls are nothing more than a shelter from outside elements and factors beyond our control; simply, a place for resting and sleeping.

But, what if it fails to meet even those simple requirements? What do you call a place where there is no rest to be had, no comfort to be enjoyed and each and every turn and corner is, ironically enough, the resting place for ghosts-a piece of the past stuck in the present and hindering its march?

She lives in no home, but a haunted house.

Waking up only for that bittersweet momentary leave, and yearning for an eternal one. It’s a simple daily cycle, a simple soul-eating one indeed.

Fortunately, she gave up on hurrying her worldly one. I guess… I hope.

I hopelessly watch from the side, trying my best to be a shoulder she can lean on. It brings me a great joy knowing she trusts me enough to share her pain with me, yet it pains me knowing she’s in pain, and I can’t be of much, if any, help.

However, it’s truly heartwarming and heart-wrenching caring for someone expecting nothing but their carefree stupid smile. It’s a special feeling that reminds me of why humans are seen as special, albeit admittedly by them.

All of that further cement in my heart and mind the fact that I dog her: it’s something far simpler than romantic love; I love her as a human being.

To romantically love someone often means idealizing them and overlooking their shortcomings, if not completely (the mad part about being madly in love) then to an extent. I don’t see her as perfect or flawless by any stretch of the imagination, but neither am I.

I can’t seek love or acceptance as, by nature, a flawed human being, without accepting that everyone is. This might not have anything to do with the current topic, but I just thought it sounded cool.