Echoes of Jane Eyre

(I just finished watching the newest version of Jane Eyre for probably the fourth or fifth time and the emotions really spoke to me this time, inspiring this.) 

 I have felt pain of the highest degree, both within and without. My very soul has been brought to the edge of humanity, held hostage above the fires of hell. My dreams were given abundantly and then torn away with even greater zeal.

 I was led upon the highest hill on a summer’s afternoon and then abandoned when the rains began to fall. My very heart has been filled with rapturous joy and then torn out of my body, leaving behind a gaping, oozing wound.

 I was a wraith, a shadow of my real self. My empty soul drifted without a destiny across dreary rolling hills. Rain fell and hid my tears, though they fell without ceasing.

 In the darkest of valleys have I journeyed and despite every hope, the nights remained long. Every hope did its best to thrive but as a plant with no roots soon withers, so did every hope.

 Every night was an eternity of its own, with the mocking whispers of memories surrounding. Your laughter, every sweet, love laced word, every unintentional yet fully intentional touch. All of these things now ripped away, save the taunting echoes.

 Yet despite every hurt, and the hollow ache, I still live. Despite how broken I have become, still, I draw in breath and then release it. When all tears have been cried and all words have been said, still, I live. Though the never-ending darkness resides with me, the light still shines upon me as well and I live. 

Recreation In Progress

   I haven't written for awhile, and a lot has happened since I last posted something remotely meaningful. I had an entire summer of writing stories and then things got busy and I stopped writing. I stopped making movies. I didn't really read as much as I used to.
  Then stuff happened, and I was suddenly left completely empty inside, a mere shadow of who I used to be. A very tired and lost shadow. It was as though my entire being had been sucked out of me and the only thing left behind was a shell.
   So I began the quest of finding myself. It started out with jumbled, angry poetry that didn't even sound poetical. The poems were short, raw and bitter. Anger radiated from them. Words didn't even fit together properly, but the words had been locked away for so long that they all spilled out, quite jumbled.
   Days, weeks, two months later and I was still writing poetry, only poetry. But the words were beginning to flow again. Little rays of hope were beginning to sneak in among the bitter and angry creations. It became a game, "put in hope where you can". I still wasn't able to write short stories and planning a movie plot was out of the question.
  After a time, I began writing long, not planned out stories in my notebook. None of them got finished, but at least I was writing four or five pages worth of story. It was progress.
   Then my drama class and I filmed a movie, with which I had ideas for and helped plan. Though it was only a music video and there wasn't much plot, it was still something, and it meant a lot to me.
    So where am I now? Still writing lots of poetry, about to start some short stories (hopefully) and already working on a movie or two. Though I still don't feel like myself every day, I think pieces of myself have returned. But at the same time, I don't even want to be the same as before. I'm different now. Still myself, the old self, but also something new. Something hopeful. I am a Recreation, still in progress.