Holding It Inside

"You're holding it inside." He frowns at her. Concern crossing
those casual features. Those casual features...they shouldn't
care.

"Holding what in?" she quips back. "There's nothing to hold in!"
Smiling now. Accepting the gift graciously. Hidden behind a wall
of humour.

And so the day progresses, as the day before. A turmoil of
activity, with so much to do...so much to be done. Each second
of every minute occupied. Unnecessary, time-filling, mind-
numbing activity.

She knows, as they do, the facts. Black letters on white paper.
A doctors diagnosis. Excuses that she repeats to them, as were
told to her.

So they scrutinze her, as she goes about her nothingness, under
their heavy gaze. Watching for flickers beneath the 'fine'. Some
show sympathy- it's just a matter of time.

"You're holding it inside," they say knowingly.

Though they do not know, as she does not. For with each pang of
pain, rearing up from the realms of sleep, searing between that
of the concious and unconcious, realization dawns.

There is no knowing, there are no answers. There is but nothing.

Nothing to be held inside.