I have stumbled through so much. I know the people who have watched me hate to see me suffer. mainly because most can't bear to see what their suffering will one day look like. I am their precognition; the ghost of Christmas to come to us all. If they deny my pain, they send me into darkness, ashamed. But I refuse to be ashamed for coming alive. It looks like I am dying, feels like I am dying but I am more alive than I have ever been. Though what I say and do looks and sounds like rage - it isn't. It is the voice of our deepest selves trying desperately to tell the rest of the world how it feel to be left so utterly and completely.
I am a traveller aware of every moment and every step and even though I cannot see the haven at the end of my journey through darkness and chaos and trouble and pain as impenetrable as an ancient forest, I have the anticipation of something.
Hope. No hope. Hope. No hope. Hope, hope, cynicism. There is no hope. For whom? For me? For the way things were? Or the way they should have been? No hope for what could have been. There is only hope for the newly born me - whoever she is. Feelings of nondescript joy waft in and I wonder where they come from. What. Where. There is no answer. I must just wait. There is no hope for what was; I will never walk with you, or grow old with you, or wake or sleep with you. I will not have your priorities and constraints leading me as a dog is led on a leash, ever again. I am left to discover, to forge my own priorities. They will now be my plans. But mine alone.
It is overwhelming. I work all day. I pace all night.
Writing is the only way I can express a part of myself I can't seem to say out loud. I find myself unedited. In this freedom I now have I say what I normally edit. I am in touch with my inner self, and this is more important than appearing on the surface to be "handling everything okay". I see my feelings more clearly when I write them down. Feelings are transient - even these shall pass. This is the mantra I keep repeating and my hope. They become part of my history marking my progress, a record of my personal milestones.
I listen to music and silence in the quiet of the evenings we always shared. I sit still in old haunts waiting for you to turn up and gre3et me and for my heart to rise in my throat at the sight of a sign from you... There is nothing. The email stays blank and empty. The space around me dark and dim. I stupidly wait or I catclogue over and over the moments over time we spent talking; each word, thought and conversation. I chant to myself. He has left me. really left me.
All things I valued in my life are now trivial. The blidners of my existance have been ripped away from me with terrifying violence and I see the mundane, the trite the trivial with such clarity it nauseates me or makes me laugh hysterically. How naive I was and how naive the whole world is. This ongoing pain is like donning new glasses and I am stunned at the garbage that clutters my life. I am cleaning the closets of my lifeand my world and my walk, throwing out the junk of my life; there is no turning back.
