What Came Out When I Tried To Write Today – 12-21-14

And what would happen if I just started writing. Writing to you. Witting about how it feels for you to be so physically absent from my life. And my personal knowledge that I will never get over this. It will always loom larger than any other meaningful thing in my consciousness. It will lay over it an opaque veneer of sorrow, resignation and grief that is razor thin but impenetrable. And that all the light and color that should be emitted from the day’s events and activities take place below this veneer; clouded under a dim layer. Buzzing somewhere below a glass darkly. And everything is a little less vibrant, pale, surreal, devoid of the present, brilliant reality it should have, a catalog of endless, numbly felt events that just happen. And I know this is the rest of my life. A slow, mundane torture of sorts. And nobody wants to hear this. Who wants to know about something they can do nothing about because there is no way to un-ring this bell. And the silence and veiled resentment is there even among those who believe they know. Those who think they can speak from righteous experience similar to mine. Yes, I remember being where you are but I moved on. I chose remembrance with joy vs mourning them with my sorrow. As if the two ways of evoking those loved and lost is so easily separated. It’s what I’m choosing they say; my understandable but willful, bitter, unevolved choice to linger in this space. A curse I willfully bring upon myself. Surely, I could see the half full glass if I only tried. If I had the courage and the will. And the spiritual fortitude. If I was sufficiently wise and strong. But here’s another possible view. Perhaps I am too much of a reminder for them of how empty their feigned “wisdom” really is. Perhaps I’m the one with the anguished, unenviable, inconvenient honesty to confront the unvarnished truth. And the courage not to sugar coat this vile, decaying, unalterable reality with sunny yellow paint and new age platitudes. I cannot walk away rationalizing the state of my life or my abject failure in living it. Perhaps it is me who has the strength and personal integrity not to plaster a giant smiley face on misery because it makes it easier to pretend, because it makes it easier to breath. You say I should lean to accept the things I cannot change? Well, I accept that on June 30, 2006, before I knew for certain what had happened, I entered an unalterably twisted dimension where the space time continuum perverted reality, creating a crushing force smashing me and all I thought I knew into useless, granular pieces.= And I’m not sure how long I can bear this pulverized state of being, or aimlessly wander in this opaque, clouded, colorless existence. It’s been more than eight years, and I remain. But still, most days, it seems hardly worth it. This was not supposed to be my life.