The loss wasn't something she could quite put a finger on. It was simply an absence. An phantasmal moment gone now in the rush of blood. This future ghost had not stayed long, and she felt that perhaps she was over reacting, being melodramatic. The loss of the future of something that could not be named was a hard to rationalize. So every time she cried, or felt sad, she also felt as if she was indulging something selfish inside her self.
Still each morning, getting up was like unraveling herself from beneath many blankets. She had to push through layers of sadness, ennui, and anxiety. The day laid out before without that invisible potential that came with a very visible sign of end. She would sit at the edge of her bed, and long to just curl back up inside the warm nest and sleep until there was no feeling. Instead she pushed forth, drawing on a tiny bit of strength that remained.
Putting ghosts to sleep is not an easy step, she would remind herself. Ghosts do not sleep in the glare of morning sunshine. The only fade to the corners in a shimmering cover of light.