Truth

A phone ringing in the darkness of night.

A single, melancholy chime

in an abyss of silence.

A cry for help.

A desperate plea for comfort.

A simple desire of support

from someone,

anyone

who notices

and cares

when it seems like no one else does.

Being

disoriented, unknowing, and uncomprehensive

lasts only a moment.

Being

alert, compassionate, and sympathetic

lasts as long as needed.

Nothing,

nothing

matters

except being that wall,

that stronghold,

that guiding light,

that hand,

to lead through the uncertainty.

Piercing muteness.

Cutting stillness.

Devastating loneliness.

A need of assistance.

A call of hopelessness

left unanswered.

Who?

Who is there

for the one who is always there for others?

When there is no one,

when it seems as if there is no one,

there is reflection.

The paper and pen that have always been a friend

in the dead of night

when all you have is a swirling amount of overwhelming thoughts.

Your mind is spilled 

into barely comprehendible words

that describe the moment in which you feel most alone.

The words form patterns,

only visible after a night of fitful sleep.

They provide evidence of your purest self,

the side that is most often written,

the thoughts that are most often withheld.

Writing allows you to expose your most vulnerable self,

even if it is only to your conscious self.