It's ten past five. I'm in the shower letting my body indulge in a hot bath after a very long day, when the alarm on my cellphone goes off. I know it's time but I am not ready, just not ready yet to let go of the warm water dripping on my skin. I try to close my eyes to the sound of my steamy bath room and all I could do is visualize the message on my lock screen.
I blink and try to change the direction of my thoughts drifting every few seconds from gay to glum and from morose to repentant. My heart was never a frail machine, my head was the culprit wavering on the brink of nervous emotions. It swayed from love songs in 1975 to a timeless death in 1963. The thoughts of all the warm embraces bought me smiles and I cooed for all my footsteps that were walking away from everyone who found me. There was once a little girl that lost her identity and picked up all junk on the way moulding it into an all new version of herself. She wrote about the dragons and painted them black. The knights in shining armour never caught her attention for she was a warrior. She was her own hero.