in loss. at loss.
since then, i have been trying hard to make sense of things. I have been grappling with the days that have been relentlessly throwing themselves at me, and I am surprised that I have made through 64 of them. i must have somehow caught those hours and sorted them through, teasing them open with these trembling fingers, on knees that knock each other.
Everyone has strategies to cope with something.. what happens to us when we have to cope with a nothing?
It doesn’t help at all to talk about it. Talking has become like a relief that is brought upon by intoxication. It fades away and for a moment, the weight is lifted off my chest and I gulp in lungfuls of hope. “It will get better”, I say, half to reassure them, half to psych myself into believing that it will get better.
As silence seeps into my body, i am surprised to find so many words to say, but at the very moment I open my mouth, they all disappear. It is that frustrating.
I have come to terms with the headache and the heartache that has made its abode with me. I cannot fall asleep without listening to Vivaldi’s “A Rain of Tears”. Among my frightful dreams, in one of them, she was so scared, and how she flung her little arms around me, so tightly, and I held her, so tightly. I woke up, afraid that I had lost her. will we be alright?
So they say, time heals all things. Haven’t we hurt enough?
I wake up and find my morning heart as tired as it was in the night. Hope has taken me a prisoner and while I am not the only one, I am perhaps the most miserable.
It has also brought about an indescribable hatred for myself. I alternate between convinced decisions of self-love to alarming self-deprecatory states.
I have begun to hate so much, yet appreciate with an equal fierceness, the question “how are you?”
I hate it because I am forced, as if one has grabbed me by the back of my collar and wrung my head around, the way a child carelessly wags the head of a limp ragdoll who is forced to look in every direction of its unpredictable handler. It frightens me, the questions of concern force me to remember that I have not been doing well.
So, “‘All right,’ I say. I want to go. I want to curl up, bury myself in darkness. I want to be covered over.
I want to rage. I want to weep, I want to retch. But most of all I want to sleep.”
I told them that I have been very tired lately. Because “tired” can mean a whole lot of things if they were listening instead of just hearing. But they don’t seem to have been listening.
I shall always remember how Providence destined that day to be a busy one for me. It allowed me to forget for a moment, to graciously allow the shock to settle into my system. Yet my hands still shook, and the people around me noticed.
In the golden hour, I miss you. We miss you.
Time has kept me in limbo in some dark pit. Memory has been an escape and a torment at the same time.
Surely, after all the darkness, the light must be brighter than we can ever imagine. But I can’t see anything..
Is it there, all the light I cannot see?
Hope, which has taken me prisoner, will it one day set me free?
i wish you came back.