Running into a group of your friends reminds me of the unspoken agreement amongst the wounded to speak not of the source of pain which is the only things still binding us. We exchange pleasantries and desperately share trivialities so as not to appear entirely disinterested or hopelessly preoccupied by you. This act is painfully transparent to all involved, yet our nature insists on its continuance.
Not surprisingly, I've been utterly paralysed by refreshed thoughts of all that I have so pathetically longed for these past months. It never does get easier. That void remains.
It's been suggested to me that I discontinue all thoughts of you and rededicate my life to starting anew. This suggestion is about as useful to me as the suggestion that I simply stop thinking at all, just as possible to fulfil.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Friday, August 3, 2012
You Are Here
I should feel silly by now... To continue pining for you, yearning, missing...
I still awake feeling as though you were just in my arms but vanished with the very opening of my eyelids. I close them in hopes of your return but its too late. I lay still and savor the lingering feeling of your weight and your warmth. It is that feeling which now represents the sole source of happiness in my life. Often, I will look at a picture of you, the one you took for me as you laid in bed with your head upon the pillow, and I can convince myself that I'm looking at you in the flesh. I reach out to embrace you, but I feel the cold sheets at arms length and am quickly reminded of my dismal fate.
Insanity, it is often said, is the repetition of behavior with expectations of differing outcomes. By this definition, I have been quite insane for months. If it is defined by a severing of perception and reality, again I fear the description is appropriate. Visions and physical sensations of you taunt my days. Even when I know with my whole intellect that you are not there, I still feel an anxiety from time to time as though I am about to round the corner and find you sitting there. Sometimes, before switching on a light, I even brace myself to find you revealed by the light.
Another day, another string of disappointments. I have only my memories. I am told by well-meaning friends to forget, to eliminate reminders of you, and to move forward. You exist in my life as but a memory, and to wipe it away would feel like an act of cruelty. I could no sooner sever a limb than my memory of you.
I'm so sorry, my love.
I still awake feeling as though you were just in my arms but vanished with the very opening of my eyelids. I close them in hopes of your return but its too late. I lay still and savor the lingering feeling of your weight and your warmth. It is that feeling which now represents the sole source of happiness in my life. Often, I will look at a picture of you, the one you took for me as you laid in bed with your head upon the pillow, and I can convince myself that I'm looking at you in the flesh. I reach out to embrace you, but I feel the cold sheets at arms length and am quickly reminded of my dismal fate.
Insanity, it is often said, is the repetition of behavior with expectations of differing outcomes. By this definition, I have been quite insane for months. If it is defined by a severing of perception and reality, again I fear the description is appropriate. Visions and physical sensations of you taunt my days. Even when I know with my whole intellect that you are not there, I still feel an anxiety from time to time as though I am about to round the corner and find you sitting there. Sometimes, before switching on a light, I even brace myself to find you revealed by the light.
Another day, another string of disappointments. I have only my memories. I am told by well-meaning friends to forget, to eliminate reminders of you, and to move forward. You exist in my life as but a memory, and to wipe it away would feel like an act of cruelty. I could no sooner sever a limb than my memory of you.
I'm so sorry, my love.
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