Dear Bubba,
That ache is back. It sprung on me and caught me unaware.
I thought I was done; but in truth we never can escape the past can we? Somewhere there is a trail that leads right back to us.
'Loss' is such a tumultuous word; it excites so many different emotions at the same time- confusion, fear, anxiety, sadness, anger... yet, today, I feel nothing. The only knowledge I am familiar with is the awareness of an absence. A constant, that is so empty that its silence is deafening. Imperceptible to the world, it is slowly eating away leaving nothing in its wake.
Except that in all its capitalization, realization has become very heavy, and it is tiring to carry it around. It aches.
I do not know what I would mourn. There seems to be nothing that has me to. But, there is, something still.
I lie awake in my listless dreams. I stare at the drawings of past, and what cannot be.
Everyday, I teach myself to live, remind myself of the pretty things around me; I regale myself with tales of love and hope, of a happiness that would be. I lie. For how long, can self-taught resilience last?
And time is behaving very sluggishly. I pray I near an end to something I don't quite see, or understand. I pray that the last chord of string remains.
...I need to move urgently, for I am afraid, that when I will catch up with myself, I may not like what I see.
It's okay to be weary of the ugliness that the ceaseless unknowing brings, you said.
But is it crazy to be afraid of yourself, Bubba?
I know now, I am.
-A!
That ache is back. It sprung on me and caught me unaware.
I thought I was done; but in truth we never can escape the past can we? Somewhere there is a trail that leads right back to us.
'Loss' is such a tumultuous word; it excites so many different emotions at the same time- confusion, fear, anxiety, sadness, anger... yet, today, I feel nothing. The only knowledge I am familiar with is the awareness of an absence. A constant, that is so empty that its silence is deafening. Imperceptible to the world, it is slowly eating away leaving nothing in its wake.
Except that in all its capitalization, realization has become very heavy, and it is tiring to carry it around. It aches.
I do not know what I would mourn. There seems to be nothing that has me to. But, there is, something still.
I lie awake in my listless dreams. I stare at the drawings of past, and what cannot be.
Everyday, I teach myself to live, remind myself of the pretty things around me; I regale myself with tales of love and hope, of a happiness that would be. I lie. For how long, can self-taught resilience last?
And time is behaving very sluggishly. I pray I near an end to something I don't quite see, or understand. I pray that the last chord of string remains.
...I need to move urgently, for I am afraid, that when I will catch up with myself, I may not like what I see.
It's okay to be weary of the ugliness that the ceaseless unknowing brings, you said.
But is it crazy to be afraid of yourself, Bubba?
I know now, I am.
-A!
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