Give Me Up

She dusted off her skirt and sat on a bench under a tree. That day, the wind was blowing fast and heavy. Looking up, she saw the sun shining brightly behind a couple of huge clouds. Oh goodness. It was past lunch, and she hadn't eaten anything yet. With a sigh, she slipped her feet out of her heeled black shoes.

"Oh, blisters." She uttered dryly.

Few people were passing by her, but she didn't care how she looked anymore - oily face, sweaty armpits and all scrunched up clothing. Her long raven hair was disheveled, dancing with the wind in strands. She pulled her bag close to her body . . . tightly, and thought she needed a hug.

"I'm tired." She admitted to herself.

It wasn't a declaration of retreat but of reality. It had been several months now and still without a success. Time seemed to be testing her grit, she thought. She stared blankly on the green scenic view toward her. It helped her rest her eyes and her body . . . and mind . . . and soul. For the first time, she forgot about her plans, goals, worries, frustration and disappointment. For the first time, it was emptiness which reigned within her. It wasn't a good feeling, though. It made her languid and feel lifeless. That sense of emptiness deepened quickly and piqued her vulnerable self. 

"Why?" She broke the silence and teared up a bit.

Suddenly, she realized that she'd been running away from something she knew she deeply wanted. For the sake of her loved ones, she tried living in a world where she did not seem to belong. She wanted to be happy, but couldn't afford to be the cause of someone's heartache. Moreover, not living her dream seemed to be a pain too great to bear. It was a bewildering tug of war between her dream and others' need of her. T'was a war between two different forms of love and suffering.

She zipped open her bag and clutched the rosary inside it. Desperately, she pulled out a pen and a piece of paper. On top of it, she wrote:

"Give Me Up"