it evaporated
Deprived of my roommate, the cats have congregated in my room. Ensei and Shunki are curled up together on my folded futon, washing each other. Jackl sprawls at my feet. Every time I go downstairs he follows me, mewing, begging for attention, hopeful.
My ragged pumpkin cat, I want to whisper to him. I'll only leave you, you know. Stop pinning your hopes on someone who doesn't exist.
Don't you know? I can only love what I can't have.
The mirror image is just as true.
The rainy season ushered in my sadness. I find myself hovering on edge, my throat tightens, and the skies cry for me. My eyes are dry. Hopelessness tugs at me, reluctance to fight, even speaking is too much trouble. The words creak and rumble, catch among my vocal chords and die.
This year, again, my friends are kinder than I deserve, celebrating a day that fills me with foreboding. I smile and laugh and try to forget what's been going through my head for days. Too young, I tell myself. Too early for your natal day to feel like a death knell.
We count up from the day of our inception; the only reason we don't count down to the day of our death is because none of us knows, for certain, when that will be.
Maybe that's why it seems that it will be tomorrow for me, every day.
This hovering emptiness has taken away my consolation, has hit me with that disease that seems to break out, periodically, but from which I have so often been immune: to wit, I cannot write. The muse is gone, and I am left empty-handed. Worse, I look at what I have written, and am so stunned by its poor quality that I can't bear to look for very long. Yet another fledgling pride/hope/belief dead in its attempt to leave the nest, joining the heap of small, fragile bodies smashed on the ground below.
My ragged pumpkin cat, I want to whisper to him. I'll only leave you, you know. Stop pinning your hopes on someone who doesn't exist.
Don't you know? I can only love what I can't have.
The mirror image is just as true.
The rainy season ushered in my sadness. I find myself hovering on edge, my throat tightens, and the skies cry for me. My eyes are dry. Hopelessness tugs at me, reluctance to fight, even speaking is too much trouble. The words creak and rumble, catch among my vocal chords and die.
This year, again, my friends are kinder than I deserve, celebrating a day that fills me with foreboding. I smile and laugh and try to forget what's been going through my head for days. Too young, I tell myself. Too early for your natal day to feel like a death knell.
We count up from the day of our inception; the only reason we don't count down to the day of our death is because none of us knows, for certain, when that will be.
Maybe that's why it seems that it will be tomorrow for me, every day.
This hovering emptiness has taken away my consolation, has hit me with that disease that seems to break out, periodically, but from which I have so often been immune: to wit, I cannot write. The muse is gone, and I am left empty-handed. Worse, I look at what I have written, and am so stunned by its poor quality that I can't bear to look for very long. Yet another fledgling pride/hope/belief dead in its attempt to leave the nest, joining the heap of small, fragile bodies smashed on the ground below.