(no subject)
its ironic... this is a post i made exactly 9 years ago... and right now, today, i really feel this.
Pain bad? he asked, knowing with his quick cleverness that it had not passed as I said it would. He did not know, as I did, that this was a pain that would never pass. It was not a share of bad meat which was tearing my belly; it was the loss of her which hit me afresh, every time I laughed, every time I saw something which would have given her joy.
No, I said, denying his insight, denying the comfort he might have given me. I've no pain.
I thought now that perhaps he had been a good friend and I could have stayed there, and that he would have helped me with my grief. Here I could not speak of it, could not be seen to be grieving. Here I had to lock it up in some cold part of my heart and never let anyone know, never let anyone see, that I was cold and aged and as dead as a smashed doll inside.
He did not know that to think of the old life made me more careless about myself, more feckless about my future than anything else could have done. For they, and I, were still alive. But she was dead.
I knew myself then to be bereft, but I had been so lonely and so hungry for so long that I did not jump up on Se and ride down to Acre to seek Will out and make things clear with him. Instead I hunched up my shoulders and hugged my knees and watched the sun set redly in the sky, and huddled my feelings of loneliness and sadness within me, as a familiar longing.
Pain bad? he asked, knowing with his quick cleverness that it had not passed as I said it would. He did not know, as I did, that this was a pain that would never pass. It was not a share of bad meat which was tearing my belly; it was the loss of her which hit me afresh, every time I laughed, every time I saw something which would have given her joy.
No, I said, denying his insight, denying the comfort he might have given me. I've no pain.
I thought now that perhaps he had been a good friend and I could have stayed there, and that he would have helped me with my grief. Here I could not speak of it, could not be seen to be grieving. Here I had to lock it up in some cold part of my heart and never let anyone know, never let anyone see, that I was cold and aged and as dead as a smashed doll inside.
He did not know that to think of the old life made me more careless about myself, more feckless about my future than anything else could have done. For they, and I, were still alive. But she was dead.
I knew myself then to be bereft, but I had been so lonely and so hungry for so long that I did not jump up on Se and ride down to Acre to seek Will out and make things clear with him. Instead I hunched up my shoulders and hugged my knees and watched the sun set redly in the sky, and huddled my feelings of loneliness and sadness within me, as a familiar longing.