Must be the season of loss. My gut's stirred up, my head's a toss. I can feel it deep down in my bones. I don't need a calendar, to alert me to the loss I feel. I'm living in a perpetual world of pain. A procession revolving around this earth. And, I just can't seem to jump off this rotting plane.
Nightly, your mystical shadow dances on my bedroom wall. Your shadow appears to loom with tranquility, yet is prevalently vaster than life. Extraordinary, given the fact that your esoteric feet no longer touch this world's plane of existence.
Come daybreak your shadow appears to fade away as if it has found security amongst the pattern of a calm and serene seascape depicted on the wallpaper.
Oddly enough, for in life, you were driven by the winds of a storm causing you to knock and roughly crash about like the ocean bashes upon the rocks of the shoreline.
By midday, your mysterious shadow begins to stir again and the dulled colors of the waves on the wallpaper begin to gleam and slightly flicker.
This being reminiscent of your recurring mood transitions like the tide begins its slow turn. Nothing could prevent the turning tide of the ocean or of your psyche, for it is the nature of the beast.
And, as the world, once again ascends into that soft serenity that meets with nightfall, your shadow appears to take in an enormous breath to restart the parade of dance just for me.
Reminding me that while living, the day was for your somber thoughts and contemplation and no one could closely compare to you, and the night was your playground and no one dared hold a candle to your nightly shine.
My world was brutally ripped out from under me the day you died. No vestige of my previous existence or sanguine soul remains. I have all but disappeared without a trace. I am frenzied and hanging on by hammer and tongs.
My grief has pushed me so far away from myself that I don't know if I will ever make it back. For every step I trudge, I am excruciatingly yanked back by the hair of my head. My carcass lays limp at odds and ends. My mind and my words are the only consistent survivors.
Not one remaining earthbound soul wishes to listen to my lamenting dribble seconds longer. Ever fed-up with me, I spy them wringing their hands in anguish. They can no longer hide behind a cheerful facade without the fear of the dam breaking and being battered by an onslaught of my tears.
I am bitterly aware that they are slowly crumbling from sheer and utter exhaustion yet, I can no more stop myself from weeping than I can from breathing. I feel a reluctance to engage with me from all those who remain in my life. They are quick to dismiss me and lend a blind stare. And, I am frightfully aware that you can't presently hear me.
Truly, I am not looking for sympathy or attention. I spurn touchy-feely demonstrations. I am not trying to dismiss others that you left behind. I know that they have also suffered. I am merely lagging in this anguished process. I have been left behind in this labyrinth of sorrow. I feel swamped and mired down in the bog of mourning.
God, only knows I am trying to find peace. I am frantically striving to find my equilibrium. It's not like I am trying to be miserable or pathetic. Honestly, I wake each morning eager and willingly searching for purpose and meaning. Yet, I repeatedly take the same long, arduous fall back into the never-ending abyss by nightfall.
Ultimately, all I have left are my words and with no one to speak. No one to cry with. No one to commiserate with. No one who wants to hear me droning on and on. I have only my pen. Yet, the words that I scribble stand crucially hard but, for what?
So, laboring and toiling, I can't make my way back. I can't speak up or successfully cry out and, I am not even sure if my words ever reach forth. It's all seems remarkably futile.
Nonetheless, my words remain my only haven. They are the only avenue I have to try to reach some semblance of sanity. Some form of peace. And, so I pen onward with my words of grief.