shambles, ferrrrrrrrreal
I have not cried. My pain is heartbreaking (is my heart broken? was it already?), but it will not lead to tears. For they are already sewn into each heavy, yet silent breath.
I think about this, realising I do not have specific thoughts, nor do I want them. Maybe I fear them. I do not want to establish whether these thoughts would be truths or lies. So I drive to my favourite high spot in the city, where I find some peace. I turn off the lights and up the stereo. I sing with my soul, but my voice is not my own. Is it simply that I cannot recognise it? Or is it more... this is currently past my comprehension. And I do not care which. Regardless of the voice, the words are completely unrelated to my sorrows, or even any joy I can muster at this hour. Whom shall I cry out to? And what shall I cry? So I sing another's lovesong. And the pain detaches somewhat from my spirit, flying wherever the man's voice is off to. And I am somehow oddly comforted.
"Today is only a day," I tell myself. There is something in the slammed doors, the cold tiled floor, the stale silence I once felt warm and at home in. There is something there. This will not last.
And this is not backwards. I am not moving backwards. How could I even allow that? "Put down the pen, Colleen." Every disappointment is some mystery of the next unforeseen adventure.
I can put down the pen. I can remain sad but move on.
I think about this, realising I do not have specific thoughts, nor do I want them. Maybe I fear them. I do not want to establish whether these thoughts would be truths or lies. So I drive to my favourite high spot in the city, where I find some peace. I turn off the lights and up the stereo. I sing with my soul, but my voice is not my own. Is it simply that I cannot recognise it? Or is it more... this is currently past my comprehension. And I do not care which. Regardless of the voice, the words are completely unrelated to my sorrows, or even any joy I can muster at this hour. Whom shall I cry out to? And what shall I cry? So I sing another's lovesong. And the pain detaches somewhat from my spirit, flying wherever the man's voice is off to. And I am somehow oddly comforted.
"Today is only a day," I tell myself. There is something in the slammed doors, the cold tiled floor, the stale silence I once felt warm and at home in. There is something there. This will not last.
And this is not backwards. I am not moving backwards. How could I even allow that? "Put down the pen, Colleen." Every disappointment is some mystery of the next unforeseen adventure.
I can put down the pen. I can remain sad but move on.